


Press Any Key To Continue

by NayPantsYayBeers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, Slow Build, awkward!derek, computer talk, dorky!stiles, minimal angst, unneccessary doctor who references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NayPantsYayBeers/pseuds/NayPantsYayBeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's desperate for a job so he can stop sleeping on his sister's couch, and Stiles needs help in his computer repair shop. How do two computer nerds get over their awkward social tendencies and into each other's pants? Yeah, they don't know, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. REALITY.SYS not found

**Author's Note:**

> I, obviously, don't own the characters.  
> This was basically an excuse to envision Stiles with glasses and a soldering iron. My brain is weird.
> 
> The rating is for later chapters, because really, slow build ftw.

Derek is seriously pissed. More than pissed, he’s _livid._ He’d spent five years, _five years_ , of his life learning everything he could. He knew computer science, software engineering, and game design like the back of his fucking hand. He dreamt in C++ and HTML 5. He would go to websites and try to rewrite the code from sight, just for fun. And in his last semester at school, that dumbass t-boned his car on New Year’s, and fucked up his leg so bad that he was in bed for three months. Which, okay, whatever. But hospital bills, and physical therapy bills and medicine are fucking expensive. So of course, all of his money went to those, because you know, getting full function back in his left leg and arm was pretty important to him.

It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if he would have done one major at a time, or even double majored, like a normal person. But no. He had to prove to everyone that he was super awesome, and could triple major. Naturally, he didn’t have enough credits from any of his majors for a degree, and didn’t have money left from the accident to go back to school. For one freaking semester. He wasn’t eligible for financial aid because of the life insurance he and Laura had gotten. In short: he was fucked.

So now he’s standing in front of a mom and pop computer repair shop, wearing a dress shirt and khakis, feeling like an idiot. Since Laura is letting him crash on her couch, he knows he has to do everything he can to get a job, and she’d mentioned that her friend owned this place, which was her version of “just go there and get a job.”

He paces for a moment on the sidewalk, looks up at the sign above the door, and cringes. He gets the joke. Of course he gets it, but is it really necessary?  “Y TARDIS: _Your Tech Always Repaired In Stile.”_   He’s has no idea why the owner decided to spell style wrong, but the mental query is fleeting. He steels himself, shakes himself off a bit, and gets a tighter grip on the envelope holding his resume. Tries to forget how much he feels like a complete dweeb, and quickly moves inside.

Y TARDIS is pretty much everything he imagined it would be judging by the name: weird, and slightly unorganized. There are framed posters of the TARDIS, the Silence and Weeping Angels interspersed with strange pictures of motherboards and video cards and sticks of ram CG-ed to look like trees and people and cups of coffee. Derek raises an eyebrow at the sign next to the front register that reads “Unattended children will be given unsupervised internet access and a large cup of espresso. Only you can prevent this from happening. Leashes upon request.”

There doesn’t appear to be anyone in the small store, but he notices a head with giant headphones banging up and down to a silent beat in the back through a window in the door behind the register. Derek looks around, wondering what he should do, before noticing the small button on the front counter that indicates he should press it for service. The moment his hand hits the button, the figure he can see through the tiny window sort of jump-flails before turning and heading in his direction.

The kid (seriously, he can’t be over nineteen) who comes through the swinging door is, in a word, a mess. His hair is sticking out, fluffy, around the headphones, his thick-framed glasses are dangerously close to slipping off his nose, and he has a low-watt soldering iron in one hand with a small coil of solder in the other. Derek feels slightly nauseous at the sight. _Who the hell let this kid near a soldering iron?_

“Hey, my name’s Derek Hale. Is the owner in? I was hoping I could apply.” He begins to lift his hand to shake, but then thinks better of it, what with the soldering iron and all. He does not appreciate Soldering Kid’s eye roll.

“Yes, I _am_ in. That your resume?” The kid says, tilting his head a little toward the envelope in Derek’s hand.

Derek doesn’t bother replying, and chooses instead to give the kid a withering look. He doesn’t have time for this kid’s bullshit. He just wants to give his resume to the owner, kiss as little ass as possible, and then go home to wallow.

“Dude, you don’t _glare_ at the owner of the establishment with which you wish to be employed. Have you ever applied for a job before? Jeez,” Soldering Kid says before sighing, and pointing at his nametag that says _Hello! I am the Doctor, but you can call me Stiles._ “I’m the owner. Get it? Stile, with an I? My dad said a Doctor Who reference _and_ a joke about my name was too much for the title, but I liked it, so I went with it anyway. I mean, just because _he_ doesn’t like Doctor Who doesn’t mean he’s the end all be all, right?”

Stiles, bravely, touches the tip of the soldering iron to test its temperature before placing it and the wire down onto the front counter. He grabs a mug with one hand to take a large gulp, and uses his other hand to take Derek’s resume. He lays the envelope open on the counter, barely skim reading, before closing it and looking back up at Derek.

“So, I’ve got some shit I gotta get done,” Stiles says before taking a bite of a donut that had apparently been hiding with the mug, speaking around the food in his mouth. “Do you mind if we do the interview while I work?”

Since everything the kid said made some sort of sense and seemed to check out, Derek shrugs, and follows Stiles to the back. Once back there, Stiles lowers his headphones so they hang around his neck, and starts working _free hand_ on a circuit board, while talking to Derek like he’s not doing something so difficult most people won’t even try it. Derek stares, slack-jawed, as Stiles smoothly does his work without one mistake, hands steady and solder applied so precisely it looks like it was done by an automated machine. Derek only realizes that Stiles was speaking to him when Stiles stops working so he can give Derek a _Dude, what the hell?_ Sort of look.

“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I _said,_ did Laura fill you in on Y TARDIS at all? Do you even know what you’re applying for? I mean, I’m assuming from the last name that you’re Laura’s brother.” Stiles chews on his lip a little as he looks back down at the board, spins it a little in his hands, considers. Derek has no idea what he’s looking for on the board, and has to actively hold back from asking.

“Yeah, Laura’s my sister. Uh, to be honest, she didn’t tell me anything.” Derek rubs the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable, as he watches Stiles sigh at the board in his hands, and plop down on a stool next to him. He hopes Stiles isn’t waiting for him to speak, because socializing isn’t exactly a strong point for him. He works on computers for a reason; they don’t expect you to hold up conversation.

“Damn, I am sick of looking at that thing. It’s like, dude, this thing is _so old_ why are you bothering to get it fixed? By the end of talking to this guy, I just kept raising the price, and he just kept _going_ with it so it’s not like I was gonna say no but, _Jesus,_ this old technology is frustrating as hell. Anyway,” Stiles waves a hand in the air, as if clearing his little rant from the space surrounding them.

“My name is Stiles Stillinski, I’m twenty-two, and Y TARDIS has been my baby for like, a year-ish now. I should probably know how long, but I don’t. That’s what my accountant slash lawyer slash whatever the hell else Lydia wants to call herself that day is for. Anyway, well, okay. I’m licensed to work on Macs, but I rarely do, because fuck they’re boring, but I’m also licensed to work on most consoles, and I obviously do the bulk of my work on PCs,” he makes a grand gesture at the random computer parts littering the counter spaces.

“I really like the physical end of all of this, you know? I dig the hardware, I like getting my hands into the stuff. Software, while I am competent at it, is not my thing. So, I’m looking for someone who can be full time in the store to do software work so I can concentrate on hardware. It’s pretty low-key here, the hours aren’t bad, and we’re only open Tuesday through Saturday, so you get every Sunday and Monday off. Questions?”

Derek just… stares. Stiles just threw a whole lot of info at him and he’s having issues processing most of it, because it sort of sounds like a dream job for his current situation.

“What type of software work?” Derek finally asks, knowing it’s a stupid question, but needing to buy time.

“Most of our customers are from around here. You know, like, maybe a twenty mile radius. It’s mostly just personal computers that need virus removals, or OS installs. I have contract work with a few companies in the area, but I have a freelance guy who does that, and it’s mostly scheduled system and network maintenance because they have their own IT guys.” Stiles puts “IT guys” in little air quotes and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, okay. Sure, no problem.”

“All right, cool.” Stiles nods absently, fiddling with what looks like a soldering coil that got caught on the wrong end of a temper tantrum. “So, just a few questions for you then. One, do you always dress like that?”

Derek actually _balks._ What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Excuse me?” He grinds out between his teeth.

“Well, dude,” Stiles motions down at his t-shirt/flannel shirt/jeans combo. “I dress like this every day. I’m gonna look like a putz if you come in every day all business casual and I come in looking all normal-person. Catch my drift?”

“I would feel comfortable working in street clothes, if that’s what you’re asking.” He can’t tell if this kid is intentionally offensive, or just oblivious to normal social interactions. He tries not to take it out on Stiles, though, because Laura has said as much about him on several occasions.

“Sweet. Okay, next. I saw on your resume that you didn’t finish school. Any reason?”

“I got into a car accident, and it took… a while for me to make a complete recovery.” Derek doesn’t exactly like to talk about it, mostly because of the look of pity on most people’s faces when he tells them. Surprisingly, Stiles just looks appeased.

“All right. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t, like, I dunno? Get kicked out for sleeping with the dean or something. Which would have been a cool story, but probably wouldn’t have said much about your personality or work ethic, ya know?” Stiles looks genuinely relieved.

“Dean Simpson, while a very nice woman, wasn’t exactly my type,” Derek bites out, trying to hide his smile.

“Glad to hear it! Now, last question, and seriously, this one is most important.” Stiles levels him with an intense stare, like Derek’s answer to what he’s going to ask next might affect the fate of the world. He points an accusing finger at Derek before speaking. “Did you skip Nine?”

Derek has to physically fight back from face-palming. He should have seen this one coming. “No.”

Stiles’s smile is immediate, and takes over his entire face.

“You’re hired!”

 

xx

 

Derek’s first day of work, he shows up in a plain t-shirt, jeans, and an old pair of Docs. He’s pretty sure the only clothes he has that are more casual than that are pajamas which, just no. He’s standing out front of the building at a quarter of ten, since Stiles told him the store opens at ten.

And he’s still waiting outside of the building at a quarter after ten. Derek realizes he probably should have gotten Stiles’s phone number in case a situation like this one happened.

Just when he is about to turn around and go back to his car, Derek sees a hideous blue Jeep pull into the parking lot and slam into a space. Stiles comes tumbling out, shirt on inside out, backpack hanging off of one shoulder, oversized beanie appearing to sit on his head out of sheer force of will, and a toothbrush in his hand.

“Sorry! Sorry, man! I slept in! Oh my god, today is gonna _suck_!” He’s fumbling with his keys, trying to find the one to the store, and thrusts his toothbrush at Derek. “Hey, hold that? Thanks.”

Derek stares at the brush in his hand, still wet and foamy with toothpaste, and grimaces, holding it away from his body. _This kid is weird,_ he thinks to himself, trying to hide the grimace and failing. _How is Laura possibly friends with this person?_

Stiles gets the door open, grabs the toothbrush from Derek, and seems to jerk back to reality when his palm wraps around the wet bristles.

“Aw, _dude!_ ” he shouts, his face comically twisted into one of revulsion. “What even is… oh, my god. Why did I bring my toothbrush? Why did you _hold_ my toothbrush? That’s weird, man.” He raises an eyebrow at Derek, like he’s the freak. “Gross, now I have toothpaste all over my hand

.” He looks at his hand for a moment, and Derek can see the cogs turning in his mind – _to lick off or wipe off the toothpaste?_

Stiles throws the toothbrush into the trash can next to the front door, wipes his palm on his jeans, and leads the way into the building. Derek stands just inside the now closed door and watches Stiles go to turn off the alarm and turn on the lights.

“All right! Well, I can get any customers that come in, and I cleared off a work space for you in the back with me. You’ve got a few virus removals and a data transfer so far for the day. So, ah, yep!” Stiles shuffles into the back, throws his headphones on, and starts messing around with a motherboard.

Derek gets to work, and doesn’t look up until he feels a tapping on his shoulder.

“Wow, man, you were in the _zone._ ” Stiles looks simultaneously impressed, and concerned.

“Yeah, guess so,” Derek replies, turning away to continue what he was doing.

“Wait, don’t you wanna eat lunch or something? It’s already three and you seriously haven’t moved. There’s this awesome place around the corner that makes these gyros that are so awesome, man. Although, you look like the really healthy type. Um, I think they have salad?” Derek takes the moment of Stiles babbling to take in his appearance.  Stiles’s hair is poking out from his ridiculous hat on the sides, and Derek idly wonders if he’s even washed it this morning. He’s turned his flannel shirt right side out, and pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, which somehow makes him look older and younger at the same time. It makes Derek uncomfortable, for more than one reason.

“Yeah, no, lunch would be good. I’ll go pick it up, what do you want?”

“Please. I own this place! We’ll both go.”

 

xx

 

Once they make it around the corner to the restaurant, aptly named _I Need A Gyro,_ Derek is simultaneously trying to ignore the terrible 80’s pop song that is now playing on repeat in his mind, and the way that Stiles chooses perhaps the tiniest booth possible, so their knees are knocking against each other as they sit.

“I know the place is famous for its gyros, but their cheesesteaks are the best thing they have. Apparently the guy is from Philadelphia, and has these special rolls delivered for them. They’re my favorite.” Stiles says, looking at the menu for only a second before placing it aside.

“Amoroso’s,” Derek says, before he even realizes he’s spoken. Stiles realizes though, of course.

“What?” Stiles looks like Derek is trying to speak in another language.

“It’s the company who makes the rolls. Amoroso’s. I went to the University of Pennsylvania. The, ah,” Derek clears his throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “The only rolls worth shipping would be those. They’re very good.” He feels like an idiot, and sort of slumps back in his seat, secretly wishing he could blend into the hideous red vinyl so Stiles would stop looking at him like that.

“Oh, shit! You’ve actually had a real _Philly Cheesesteak_! That’s awesome, man!” Stiles says _Philly Cheesesteak_ in a strange accent, over-annunciating every syllable, making the consonants harsh and the vowels too clipped.

“You do know that no one from that city actually speaks like that, right?”

“Dude, don’t crush my dreams.”

Derek nods once, knowing enough about Stiles to realize this discussion isn’t worth it.

The waitress, who makes eye contact with Derek the entire time, even as she takes Stiles’s order, flits away with an, “it’ll be out in a few minutes,” leaving the awkward pair alone as they wait.

“Is it always like that?” Stiles asks suddenly in the silence left in the waitress’s wake.

“Like what?” Derek asks before taking a sip of his soda, frowning a bit at how much seltzer is hidden in the dark depths that should taste solely of cola. What a disappointment.

“Do people always try to blow you with their eyes everywhere you go?”

Derek almost shoots the soda right out his nose. Seriously, he can feel it at the back of his nostrils, slowly dripping back down to his throat as he chokes. It’s unpleasant.

“Do they _what?_ ”

“Don’t even, man. We both know you’re a retarded level of attractive. I just, I guess I didn’t realize how weird it would be to be you, knowing most of the people you meet want to bang you. Is it weird, or awesome, or creepy, or…” Stiles sort of trails off, making a vague motion with his hands, as if to say _you know where I’m going with this._

Derek, who is marginally offended, stares at Stiles with an eyebrow raised. “I seriously don’t know how to respond to that.” He doesn’t wait for a response before getting up from the booth, moving to the front counter, and asking for a less seltzer-ized soda. Because, damn, that soda was gross.

When Derek gets back to the table, he is almost surprised by the level of embarrassment Stiles appears to be trying to overcome.

“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable earlier. I mean, not that you aren’t insanely attractive, because you so are, but you don’t need that pointed out all the time. Obviously, because people clearly try to have sex with you at every turn – not that _I_ am – but not that I wouldn’t! I’m just saying, it must be super frustrating not being able to go anywhere without people wanting you. You know, physically. Not that, you know, mentally, you are deficient or… anything?” Stiles finally decides to look up from the table, cheeks a bright red and his eyes wincing slightly, as if he’s trying to shrink away from his own words.

“You are so going to quit now. Fuck, this is so beyond the valley of okay,” Stiles mumbles into his straw, before he bites down on it and takes a sip of his soda. Derek is seriously surprised any of the Sprite can move through the straw with how he’s gnawing on it, and impressed that he can both chew and drink from it at the same time. The kid’s weird.

“I’m not going to quit. And I hadn’t noticed anyone, what was it? ‘Blowing me with their eyes?’ The waitress just seemed nice. I guess I don’t really notice when it’s women.” Derek says with a shrug, and Stiles’s eyes go wide for a second before he gets them under control. Derek still sort of wants to clomp Stiles on the side of the head, but he more just sympathizes with him. Stiles handles social situations with an overabundance of chatter, while Derek handles them with lowered eyebrows and a stiff upper lip. They’re not so different, he guesses.

The waitress saves Stiles from having to respond, placing their cheesesteaks in front of them, and throwing an overly large smile at Derek before walking away with a bit more sway in her hips than is strictly necessary.

“Okay, maybe I see it a little,” Derek says around a suppressed chuckle.

Stiles, with a large, cheesy strip of steak hanging out of his mouth, tries and mostly fails to grin around the giant bite of food in his mouth. Derek gets the point, though.

 

xx

 

The next few days go by without incident, for the most part. Stiles shows up to work on time, and Derek gets a little more comfortable in his work space. He even brings in a picture Laura framed of their family, from before, to put on his section of counter space in the back. Granted, Laura pretty much gave him no choice, but it still felt like progress.

It’s a Saturday, and Laura is taking a weekend trip to the mountains with her poor, unsuspecting boyfriend of the week (read: she has a very short attention span). Derek has finally taken a cue from Stiles, wearing headphones and listening to music at almost deafening volumes, trying to not punch the laptop he’s currently trying to remove a virus from, when Stiles abruptly shoves something in front of Derek’s face, scaring the shit out of him.

“Fuck!” Derek yells, almost jumping backward off of his stool and pulling the earbuds out of his ears, the small, tinny noise of the music sounding from where they hang by his knees.

“Oops! Sorry, man! Didn’t mean to scare you!” Stiles’s voice sounds apologetic, but his face is covered in a huge grin. “I thought we could get you a nametag! What do you think?” He wields a label maker in the air like it’s the second-coming.

“Uh, sure.” A nametag is basically the last thing Derek wants to have. Ever.

“Hey, come on! It’ll be fu-un.” Stiles sings the last word out, somehow turning it into two syllables, and pulls a stool up next to Derek’s before turning on the label maker, staring at it thoughtfully.

“Did you forget how to spell my name?” Derek asks, feeling the corner of his mouth tilt up.

“Hey man, your sass is showing. Might wanna look into that,” Stiles says back quickly, throwing him a wink.

Stiles types on the tiny keyboard of the label maker, tongue sticking out from his lips a little in thought, wiggling back and forth over his bottom lip every few moments. Derek pointedly looks away from his mouth, saying the alphabet backward in his head. Well, it actually goes more like ”z y x w v don’t even think about it dumbass u t s r q it is the worst idea ever to let your brain go down that road p o n m l dear god how does he not see what he’s doing with his tongue k j i… am so fucked.”

Stiles chooses then to turn the label maker around and show Derek the screen, presumably to get an opinion.

_I’m the companion! But you can call me Derek._

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m the Doctor, you can be the companion. It’s a _theme,_ ” Stiles tells him, like it is obviously the best idea ever.

Derek grabs the label maker from him, types in “ex term in ate,” and hands it back over before putting his earbuds back in and going back to work. He can still hear Stiles’s peals of laughter over the music, and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk this time.

 

About an hour later, Stiles gently taps Derek on the shoulder, and thankfully doesn’t scare him this time. Derek pulls out one earbud, turning to look at him.

“Hey, so ahhh,” Stiles fidgets a little, which isn’t exactly rare for him. He’s a fidgety kind of guy, which when Derek thinks about it, makes his freehand work even more impressive.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, trying to help him out.

“So, I got this sick box set of Sherlock online, and my friend Scott was supposed to watch the special features with me tonight, but apparently there is some drama with his girlfriend which, you know, for them isn’t all that surprising because there’s _always_ drama with those two, which doesn’t make all that much sense since they’re dumbly perfect for each othe--“

Derek clears his throat, trying to get Stiles back on track.

“Right, so, I was gonna order some takeout and watch it, and I know Laura’s out of town this weekend, so I was thinking, you know, if you didn’t have any plans or whatever, you might wanna come over?” Stiles sort of blends the last few words together quickly, like he hopes if he says them fast enough it’ll somehow be less awkward.

Derek isn’t even going to _touch_ how Stiles knows Laura is out of town, and the plans don’t actually sound any worse than the ones Derek had originally for this evening (read: work out until he was too tired to move then go to sleep early), so he throws Stiles a bone, hoping he doesn’t regret it.

“Yeah, sure.”

Stiles lets out a woosh of breath, and smiles slowly.

“Okay, cool. Eight?” The smile on his face grows a little bigger as he gives Derek directions to his apartment, and Derek starts to get concerned that Stiles is contagious or something, because by the time they leave, he’s smiling, too.


	2. DATE.SYS: You are unprepared. To abort press 1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... sorry it took so long. I have no valid reason other than that I am lazy.  
> However, I'd just like to throw out a big, huge thank you to everyone who has given Kudos and commented and followed and just been, in general, the nicest most wonderful folks of all time. You all give me the feels. So, thank you.

Derek is slightly panicked, pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom mirror in his boxers, glaring down at his suitcase overflowing with clothes. He gives in and calls Laura, who answers on the fourth ring. He tries not to think about what took her so long.

“Hey, what’s up?” Laura asks, mildly out of breath. Derek closes his eyes, and tries not to make gagging sounds.

“I have a problem,” he says slowly, through mostly gritted teeth.

“You have several,” she replies, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, thanks for that. But I’m serious. I have no idea what I’m doing, and trying really hard not to freak out.” He starts pacing again, and looks down at his suitcase, glaring at it like it’s mortally offended him.

“I’m kind of surprised it took you this long to punch Stiles. What’d he do? Ask if he could see a scar from the accident? Oh! Did he spill coffee on you? He’s done that to me. Twice.” She stops speaking for a moment and lets out a very un-Laura-like giggle.

“So, did you get him in the eye or the mouth? Did he cry?” She has entirely too much glee in her voice, and Derek worries about her sanity. She’s more than a little bloodthirsty, and it is not normal.

“No, I didn’t punch anyone. I’m going to his place tonight to watch DVDs and eat take out, but, is this a hang out? Is this a weird Stiles-version of a date? What the hell am I doing? I feel like an idiot.” He huffs, and flops down to sit on the edge of the tub. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t the best idea because he’s just taken a shower and now he’s sitting in a wet spot. This is his last clean pair of underwear. Awesome.

“Wait, what?” She asks, and then he can hear her make a shoo-ing noise in the background. “No, Luke, hang on, I have to pay attention. Go get us more beer,” which is followed by giggles, and Derek’s stomach churning.

“Ew,” he whispers lowly to himself. _I have problems, she says, like she isn’t the one who_ gives _me problems. God, I need friends._

“Okay, start at the beginning,” Laura says, voice serious.

After Derek gives her a quick run through of the conversation, she makes a quiet humming sound.

“I think this is a date, because he _never_ hangs out with anyone other than Scott and Allison. I mean, we’re only friends because he fixed my laptop,” she pauses again. “Yeah, no, this is totally a date.”

“Well, shit.” Derek drops his head into his free hand and groans.

“When are you supposed to be there?” She asks, sounding surprisingly sympathetic. It makes him feel like he’s about to walk to the gallows.

“Ten minutes,” he says quietly, knowing that it’ll probably take longer than that to get there, and he is so going to be late.

“Wear your grey Henley and jeans, and stop on the way for some expensive beer to make up for how late you’re going to be. Oh, and Derek?”

“Yeah?” He asks, standing up again, shucking off his wet underwear and sighing at how he’ll have to go commando on a date, like a complete douche.

“Don’t punch him if he tries to kiss you, okay?”

Derek hangs up on her.

 

xx

 

At twenty after eight Derek knocks tentatively on Stiles’s door, trying to balance a six pack of Stella and a six pack of his favorite IPA. He knows bringing two different kinds of beer is probably excessive, but he doesn’t know what kind Stiles likes, so he figures he’s better safe than sorry.

“Coming! Sorry, I’m on my way,” he hears Stiles yelp from the other side of the door before he hears the click of the lock. Stiles throws the door open, and Derek almost drops the beer. _Jesus, I am so not prepared for this._

Stiles is barefoot, wearing a tight t-shirt that says “The Angels Have The Phonebox” and jeans that fit much more snugly than the ones he normally wears to work. His hair is wet and lying awkwardly against his forehead, and he is curiously without glasses. Derek swallows, and gives him a shaky smile, lifting both of the six packs.

“Sorry I’m late. I didn’t know what you liked so…” He trails off, feeling the awkward flowing from his body in waves. He’s going to kill Laura for not warning him to stay at home where he can’t embarrass himself.

“Oh, good. I totally realized that all I have to drink in my fridge is Red Bull. Way to think ahead, man. Well, come on in to Casa De Stilinski,” he says, backing into his apartment and making a grand gesture with his hands.

“I know, it looks like someone gave a high school kid an apartment. I can’t help it, though. I live alone so there’s no one here to tell me when I make a bad decorating choice.” He shrugs, and motions for Derek to follow him.

Derek shuts the door behind himself and follows slowly behind Stiles, taking in the eclectic décor. The walls are a pale grey, the carpets a dark grey, and most of the furniture is black. The apartment is small, but the quality of what’s inside it makes Derek think that Stiles has a lot more money than he’d realized, which would explain Y TARDIS.

The actual decorating, though, looks like Stiles got everything from thinkgeek.com. Everywhere he looks, there is a little piece of nerdiness that screams Stiles, from the Adipose pillow on the large, comfy looking couch, to the framed photoset of different Bethesda cover art (that, upon closer inspection, is signed).

The living room is on the right, but Derek follows him to the left toward the kitchen, which has… a giant mural of the cover of System Shock painted on the wall behind the stove. Derek turns his head slowly away from it to look at Stiles, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, yeah, my friend Allison likes to paint. Isn’t it awesome? It looks even cooler if anything on the stove has steam coming off of it.” He smiles, and opens the fridge so Derek can put the beer in.

“Which would you like?” Derek asks, grabbing himself one of the IPAs.

“I haven’t had that one before. Can I try it before I decide?” Stiles asks, pointing at the one in Derek’s hand.

Derek hands it over, and watches Stiles take a sip, before he immediately pulls a face that screams _Oh, dear God, what did I just drink?_

“For the love of – what _is_ that? Oh, ew ew ew. Quick, gimme the other one. Oh my god, taste buds, please forgive me for what I just did to you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and switches the IPA out for an open Stella in Stiles’s hand, taking a sip of the beer Stiles has deemed evil (if his mutterings between sips of his new beer indicate anything). He tries not to think about the fact that he’s putting his mouth right where Stiles has just put his.

“That,” Stiles says looking more than a little disgruntled, “was horrific. I am almost mad at you for letting me drink that.”

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste?”

“No. It’s a _bad_ taste,” Stiles says, opening a drawer filled with takeout menus and pulling out a few, seemingly at random. “So, Thai, Mexican, Chinese, I think I have a sushi one in here somewhere…”

“I’m fine with whatever you want, really,” Derek says quietly, trying to sound as easy-to-please as possible.

“Fine, but if you don’t like what I pick, I’m not apologizing,” Stiles says with way too wide of a grin, grabbing the menu on top and pulling out his cell phone. “You can go get comfy in the living room, I’ll be right out.”

Derek nods once, and walks into the living room, immediately feeling like it’s a trap. Where the hell is he supposed to sit? If he picks a chair, it’ll look like he doesn’t want Stiles near him, but if he sits next to the arm of the couch, will that say the same thing? If he sits in the center of the couch, that will make it seem like he wants to be _too_ close to Stiles.

Stiles who, now that he thinks about it, has an as of yet undefined sexual preference. He flops down by the arm of the couch, feeling that’s safest, and rests his beer between his knees before firing off a quick text to Laura.

_Jesus. I didn’t even ask – does he even like guys? Did you tell me this was a date to fuck with me?_

Stiles comes into the living room just as Derek is locking his phone and putting it on the arm rest, looking for all the world like he has never seen the furniture in his own living room before, and has no idea which seat he is allowed to sit in.

“Did I sit where you normally sit? I can move,” Derek says, making to stand up.

“I’m not Sheldon, jeez,” Stiles rolls his eyes, walks to the chair to grab the remote, and sits down on the couch not quite next to the opposite arm, but not quite in the center. Derek has no idea what that means.

“So, have you seen Sherlock?” Stiles asks, pulling his feet up to sit indian-style, getting comfortable.

“Fucking Moffatt,” is Derek’s only response before he takes another sip of his beer.

“Oh, he’s ruined your life, too? Are you part of the club? I hear next year we’re getting jackets.”

Derek tries not to choke on his sip of beer, and settles back into the couch to get comfortable, too.

They’re about ten minutes into the special features on the first episode when there’s a knock on the door. Stiles flails, not unlike the first time Derek met him, and gets up off the couch, pulling his wallet out of his pocket on the way.

Derek quickly gets up behind him, following him to the door. Stiles grabs the take out bags from the delivery guy before telling him to hang on a minute, and when he’s in the kitchen setting the bags down, Derek swoops in to ask how much.

He hands the delivery guy the total plus tip, and sends him on his way before Stiles even comes back.

“Um, did he just forget that I didn’t pay him and leave?” Stiles asks, looking around like the delivery guy might be hiding behind a piece of furniture.

“No, I got it. So, what’d you order?” Derek walks toward the kitchen, trying to play it cool, and hoping what he did didn’t just scream _I THINK THIS IS A DATE NOW KISS ME._

He hears Stiles grumble something that sounds like “that was supposed to be my job,” and smiles a little to himself.

 

Stiles ordered the spiciest Thai food Derek has ever had the displeasure of eating, and he finds himself taking a gulp of beer between each bite to combat the burning that he can feel all the way in the pit of his stomach. He’s only a little intimidated by the fact that Stiles seems to think the food isn’t spicy at all. He feels like a wuss.

Laura waits over an hour to text him back with _I thought YOU said he was gay. How the hell am I supposed to know? Worst. Mo. Ever._

Derek growls at his phone and shoves it into his back pocket, looking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, hoping that he will magically be able to pick up if Stiles is attracted to him or not. A few incoherent ramblings over cheesesteaks aren’t enough for him to bank his pride, and his job, on.

“You okay? You look sort of… frustrated,” Stiles says, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, no. Laura’s just being Laura.” It’s the closest he can say to the truth without sounding crazy. Or, ya know, just straight up asking if Stiles is gay.

“She’s a handful, that one. So, up for another episode worth of commentary?” Stiles asks, not really waiting for a response before lying down across the couch, shoving his toes under Derek’s thigh, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Derek tries to play it cool, or at least like he isn’t forming a stiffy while wearing _no underwear whatsoever_. So, he nods while mumbling out an only partially squeaky “yeah, sure.”

 

About an hour later, there is an insanely loud knock at the door, and then the very obvious sound of a key turning in the lock.

“Stiles!” Comes a high-pitched female voice, “I’m coming in slowly, blind. I will not repeat that mistake again. Please tell me you are wearing pants.”

The woman who enters is probably Derek’s age, short despite her clearly expensive high heeled shoes. Her almost-red hair is up in a large bun on the top of her head that most likely took a deceivingly long about of time to accomplish.

He doesn’t even have to see the part of her face being covered by her hand to know she is beautiful.

“It was _one time,_ ” Stiles says, annoyed, without even tilting his head to look at her. “One.”

The woman apparently takes that as an okay to open her eyes, and her eyes become almost unbelievably large at the sight of Derek on Stiles’s couch.

She raises an eyebrow, and tilts her head to the side, as if the slight change in view will tell her everything she needs to know about Derek. It makes him feel uncomfortable, especially when she makes a huffing sound, as if disappointed.

“Am I interrupting something?” She asks, for all the world sounding annoyed. Derek tries not to judge, tries not to think how presumptuous it is of her to barge into Stiles’s apartment only to be inconvenienced by him having company. But then Derek remembers, he isn’t in the place to have an opinion about it anyway.

“Nah, what’s up?” Stiles takes a sip of his beer, still staring at the TV. The woman clearly does not approve, and moves to stand in front of the screen.

“You can’t just hire someone without consulting the person who _handles all of your finances,_ notifying said person via text. Do you understand how stupid that was? Do you even know what goes into that? Your taxes alone are going to change so much it will take me weeks to get through it all. Weeks!” Her hands are flying angrily in the space surrounding her, and Derek is tempted to move her away from the bookshelves containing the most-likely expensive figurines to her left.

“Sorry, I guess it just didn’t occur to me? I needed someone, and he showed up. It was kind of perfect.” Stiles shrugs, and gives her (what Derek is sure Stiles believes is a sad sort of puppy-dog look. She might not find it endearing, but Derek certainly does.

The woman rolls her eyes, disappears to the kitchen, and comes back a moment later with one of Derek’s beers. She uses the edge of the coffee table to slam the cap off, and takes a long pull of the beer, making a satisfied sound, before sitting down on the large, All In The Family-type armchair.

“When’d you stop drinking bitch beer?” She asks calmly, ignoring Derek again.

When she receives no response, she plows on with a sigh. “So what are we watching?”

Stiles makes lazy gestures with his hand, “Derek, Lydia. Lydia, Derek. I wish I could tell you she wasn’t always scary and rude, but that would be a lie, and I have morals.”

 

About an hour later, Derek’s eyes are starting to feel heavy, and the heartburn from dinner has finally receded, and he closes his eyes, just for a minute.

 

When Derek wakes up, he feels suspiciously warm, and insanely uncomfortable. He groans quietly, opening his eyes, and immediately freezes. He’s still in Stiles’s living room. And he’s guessing that the uncomfortable pillow he’s using is actually Stiles’s thigh.

This is also the moment he realizes the reason he woke up – Lydia poking him, repeatedly saying “Hey, Tiny! _Tiny!_ Wake up!” into his ear at a volume that could be heard across the room. He wants to point out that the nickname isn’t humorous or original, but he doesn’t actually have full function of his mouth yet, so he grunts. He hopes the grunt conveys “I hate you beyond comprehension.” It probably doesn’t.

He sits up slowly, taking in the situation. Stiles is passed out cold, facing the back of the couch, his feet in Derek’s lap. Derek’s left hand is shoved up the left pant leg of Stiles’s jeans, gently gripping the back of his knee, and Derek’s head had most definitely been on Stiles’s thigh.

“What?” He asks intelligently. “What time is it? Why are you yelling in my ear? Jesus, can he sleep through anything?” Before he can stop himself, Derek pokes at Stiles a few times, smiling in a small way at how Stiles makes a sort-of snuffling noise before resuming his quiet snoring.

“It’s almost two in the morning. I’m guessing that, since I’ve never even heard of you, this is a first time kind of hang out. Which means no sleepovers. Now scoot!” She actually makes a shooing motion with her hands, ushering him toward the door.

Derek tries to look affronted, but falls terribly short – more in the realm of “I’m too tired for this shit.” He mumbles something to the effect of “don’t drink all my damned beer,” on his way out.

 

Only when he’s falling into bed that night does he realize four very important things.

1\. Lydia is probably Stiles’s ex (meaning Stiles likes girls). Based on how she seemed revolted by the idea of Stiles not wearing pants, he was roughly 98% sure that Stiles wasn’t currently in a relationship with her.

2\. He didn’t have Stiles’s number, so god only knows what Stiles would think when he woke up the next morning, with no recollection of Derek leaving.

3\. He’s probably completely blown it already.

4\. The first three might not matter, because he still has no idea if Stiles is into guys, even a little.

 

Fucked. He was so, unbelievably, fucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment or a message - they all make me so happeh. :D


	3. Another Player Has Requested To Join The Game: Accept?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura makes an appearance.  
> It does not end well.
> 
> This is a small chapter, I realize. But that's because there is another following it - in Stiles's POV. ;)

Around eight thirty the next morning, Derek is just leaving for a run when he gets a text from Stiles.

_Stole your number from your resume. Like a creep._

And then quickly another comes in, before he can even reply.

_This is Stiles, by the way. PS You didn’t even tuck me in? You just lost. 4.27 brownie points. –S_

Derek can’t even fight the grin, no matter the dirty look the neighbor across the hall is giving him as he stands outside his door, trying to stretch, but mostly smiling goofily at his phone. Really, though, considering his neighbor is clearly wearing his wife’s robe, _open,_ with white briefs and bunny slippers to complete the ensemble, Derek doesn’t feel the guy really has a leg to stand on.

 _Does that mean I still have 5.73 left?_ He fires back, quickly jogging down the stairs to get a quick few miles in. He hears his phone go off in his pocket once during the run, but doesn’t look at it. He pretends that he thinks it will distract him, but he knows he’s using it as motivation to get the run finished more quickly.

It totally works.

He waits to look at his phone until he’s in the bathroom, turning the shower on, popping a few Advil to lessen some of the pain in his hip.

_Who said you started with ten? :P What are you doing for lunch? –S_

Derek smirks. _Of course he uses emoticons,_ Derek thinks. _I shouldn’t have expected any less._

_It’s only 9:30. –D_

Then, before he can stop himself, he sends another.

_How’s 12? My address is on my resume, too. –D_

He hops in the shower before he can chicken out.

He tries really, really hard not to jack off in the shower and fails. Twice.

xx

When he’s dressed, and sees the text from Stiles that he’s in for lunch, Derek manically dashes around the apartment looking for his keys and his wallet so he can run to the store and find something he can throw together for lunch that says “I didn’t buy this just for you, I was going to make it anyway. It also turns out that I am a fantastic chef, with absolutely unparalleled social skills. Now kiss me.”

However, he comes to a screeching halt when he sees Laura sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV like she owns the place. Which, okay, she does, but she’s not supposed to _be_ here right now.

“You’re not supposed to be here right now,” Derek whines, tugging on his hair and feeling slightly panicked.

“Wow, nice to see you, too. So how’d last night go? I’m assuming not _that_ well, what with the almost hour long shower.” Laura says without looking away from what appears to be a truly horrific reality TV show. He briefly wonders why the one woman on the show looks to have almost no forehead at all, like a caveman, but gets back to the conversation quickly.

“Don’t. Stiles is coming over for lunch at twelve, and I have to go get something to make for us that says a lot of things, and it won’t say any of the right ones if you are here. What happened to coming home late tonight?” He understands that he really isn’t in the position to be angry, what with this being her apartment, but he’s freaking out, okay? _Freaking. Out._

“Luke was boring. You do know food doesn’t talk, right? You’ve had boyfriends before, what is your deal right now?” She’s turned around on the couch now, kneeling and leaning over the back with her head resting on her folded arms.

“He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even know if he _likes_ guys, which is why the food has to imply that I’m not making it for a date, but that I would have been making it anyway, even if he wasn’t here. It would also be nice if it was implied that, were he into me, he point it out. But I’m not going to push that one, obviously.” He can already tell that he’s been hanging out with Stiles too much, because he’s starting to go off on tangents the same way Stiles does. He regrets nothing.

Laura has tilted her face down to hide her smile behind her arms, but Derek can still see the tell-tale crinkles around her eyes. _Well, at least she’s_ trying _to hide her amusement_.

“Obviously,” she says. Derek resolutely ignores the shaking of her shoulders, silent laughter turning her cheeks pink.

“I hate you,” he grumbles before stalking out the door, cursing her quietly for being the least helpful sister in the entire world.

 

xx

 

When Stiles shows up at twelve with what’s left of Derek’s six pack from the night before, Derek lets out a loud bark of laughter.

“Just knowing that was in my fridge made me uncomfortable. I still think there is something wrong with you for liking that.” Stiles grins before following Derek into the apartment.

Which is when Laura walks out from her bedroom in a bikini like that’s what normal people do in March. Derek doesn’t even bother holding back the face-palm.

“Hey, Stiles! Fancy seeing you here,” she says with entirely too much glee before she moves in for a hug. Stiles looks completely thrown, and appears to have no idea where to put his hands. He settles for patting her on one shoulder before moving away.

“Oh, yum!” Laura grabs a bottle from the cardboard case, pops the cap off, and takes a few large, somehow suggestive, gulps. Derek wants to die.

“Can you please go put some clothes on? I am actually begging you right now,” Derek grits out through his teeth.

“Oh, please. Just us girls here, right Stiles?” Laura’s grin is almost splitting her face in half as she leans over to bump her hip into Stiles’s.

Derek sneaks a look at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, and notices that Stiles looks mildly nauseated as he turns to face Derek.

“Am I supposed to respond to that?” He asks Derek, as if Laura isn’t even in the room.

“No. You really aren’t,” Derek says to him as kindly as he can, and then turns to Laura again. “You are the actual worst. Now, please, go put clothes on. We are about to _eat._ ”

Laura shrugs, like it was a suggestion for her benefit and not a plea from Derek so he could retain some semblance of sanity, and sits down at the table. “So, what are we having?”

 

Derek refuses to serve any food until Laura puts on a cover-up, which results in a pouting Laura, and the home-made chicken tenders being a little cool, but still edible. He's thankful the sides he made are all cold.

Derek tries, on numerous accounts, to start a conversation with Stiles. Laura buts in every time.

“So did you get that board back up? The water damage looked pretty extensive,” Derek asks Stiles between bites.

Stiles nods while he chews before speaking.

“Man, these are _awesome_. Anyway, yeah, it actually wasn’t too bad. After I had it sit in raw rice for a few days, it was just a little bit of soldering and _bam,_ good as new.” He takes a bite entirely too large for it to be polite, which Derek finds strangely endearing.

“So you do all of your soldering free-hand. Right, Stiles?” Laura says, laying on the awe a little thick. “That’s got to be really difficult. You must have very talented hands.”

“Uh, it’s not that hard, really. I enjoy it.” He shifts a little in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He also appears to have no idea what to do with his hands, and looks down at them as if they are betraying him simply by existing.

“I’m sure. How did you even come to own your store, anyway? You’re pretty young to own your own business.” _Jesus Christ, she isn’t even_ eating _anymore,_ Derek thinks. _She’s just… staring at him. Like a lion waiting to strike. I want to die. Oh my god, I want to die. At this point, I don’t even care if it’s quick and painless._

“Before my mom passed she bought an assload of stock in _Yahoo!_ , sold it, and then let the money sit in a trust for me. When you have enough money, people tend to turn a blind eye to the fact that you’re twenty and completely inexperienced when it comes to business.” He shrugs, like having a lot of money from stock in _freaking_ Yahoo! is normal.

“So, with how successful you are, how is it possible you don’t have people lining up to be with you? I mean, you’re so cute! You’ve gotta be beating girls  _and_ guys off with a stick.” She throws him a wink. Derek groans.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Derek says.

 

The questions pretty much follow that theme for what remains of the incredibly awkward lunch. Derek can see, as each second passes, Stiles drawing into himself more and more.

By the time Stiles is helping Derek clear the table, he’s gone completely silent, and his face keeps going from an embarrassed pink to a stark white.

Derek moves  “pick up lye and a shovel to take care of the Laura situation” to the top of his To-Do list as he loads the dishwasher. He’s pretty sure he’s only mostly kidding. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I listen to music when I write, and I know that if someone tells me what they listen to when they write a story, sometimes I like to listen to that music when I read it.
> 
> So, ah, this is what I’ve been listening to for this story so far.
> 
> Some songs makes me think of the story itself, while other songs are music I think this Stiles and this Derek might listen to. There are also a few in there that I think of as the characters’ theme songs, cause I’m pretty much just a giant dweeb.  
> Feel free to take a listen while you read, if you’d like.
> 
> Icona Pop – I Love It  
> The Flys – Got You (Where I Want You)  
> New Found Glory – Dressed To Kill  
> New Found Glory – Sincerely Me  
> The Starting Line – Best of Me  
> The Starting Line – Up and Go  
> The Lumineers – Ho Hey  
> Bright Eyes – First Day of My Life  
> Brand New – Magazines  
> Mest – Drawing Board  
> Spoon – The Underdog  
> The Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition  
> The High Strung – The Luck You Got  
> We Are Scientists – After Hours


	4. Would you kindly..... fuck off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we hear from Stiles now.  
> Yep.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone leaving comments and Kudos and oh you're all just fantastic. I love you.  
> Please, keep telling me how you feel about the story! Every time my cell pings with a new comment and kudos I go a little crazy with all of the happy.

**Stiles**

After helping to clean up lunch, Stiles shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Okay, well, I gotta go meet up with Scott and Allison. Thanks for lunch, Derek.” He pauses, and tips his head slightly to indicate her, “Laura,” he mumbles out quickly, and just short-of runs out the door of the apartment.

He’s not even into his car before he’s texting Scott.

_For the love of god. Meet me at my place with beer. A lot of it. Like, now. –S_

He gets into the Jeep, puts his seatbelt on, and then sends another text.

_Better bring some tequila, too. – S_

He lets the events of the past hour and a half of his life play like a movie in the background of his mind while he drives, grimacing more and more as each moment re-plays.

He feels… stupid. Beyond stupid. He feels like a grade-A jackass. No, Jackass. With a capital J.

Derek wasn’t interested in him, Derek was trying to set him up with _Laura._ His _sister._

“Oh, sweet eight pound, four ounce baby Jesus. I am a fool,” he says aloud in the silence of his car.

Thinking back on it, he probably should have seen the signs. Derek never outwardly indicated an interest in him. Not once. Sure, he seemed nervous sometimes, but the guy is kind of awkward to begin with. It’s not unreasonable for him to just not know how to react in situations.

When Stiles pulls into his parking spot in front of his building, he turns off the car and sort of face-plants on the steering wheel.

“Stilinski, you’re a dumbass.” He sighs, pulls the keys out of the ignition, and trudges his way to his apartment.

He doesn’t bother locking the door when he gets inside, knowing Scott won’t be far behind, and plops down on the couch to wallow / wait for him. _Glad to see I can multitask even in stressful and highly emotional situations. Stiles: 1. World: still probably about 1 billion or so. Well, I’m catching up._

It’s not long into Stiles’s _Woe Is Me Version 1.3_ when Scott comes tumbling through the door with a bag from the liquor store in each hand, looking absolutely frantic.

“What the fuck, man! Don’t just send me a text like that! What happened? Did you spill something on him? Did he punch you? Did you do that thing you sometimes do, where you’re _trying_ to give a compliment, but you just end up sou-“

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Stiles cuts him off, raising a hand in the air. “Listing the myriad of ways I could have screwed this up is really not helping right now.” He throws his arms over his face and groans, maybe a bit dramatically.

“He tried to set me up with his sister.”

There’s a pause before Scott speaks.

“I’ll get some shot glasses.”

 

xx

 

“Okay, but seriously,” Stiles slurs out after shot number… well, probably higher than nine and lower than fifteen. He takes a gulp of beer before continuing (because, apparently, he chases with beer now. After all, this is serious business), “less than _twenty four hours_ before I’m sitting at his kitchen table, listening to his sister wax poetic about my hands, he was cuddling all up on me on my couch. Sure, he was asleep, but still. I don’t curl up with people I want to set up with _my_ sister!”

“You don’t have a sister,” Scott says as he pours another round of shots.

“Exactly!” Stiles slams his hands down on the coffee table, as if he’s just made an incredibly valid point.

Scott raises an eyebrow as he puts the cap back on the tequila. “Wait for it… It’s gonna click in a sec.”

“Wait, no. That didn’t actually make my point,” Stiles sighs, confused and unable to find his way back because of all of the tequila.

“There we go.” Scott smiles, and doesn’t bother waiting for Stiles before he takes another shot.

“I don’t know how you do it, man. When you drink, you become like… Sylar from Heroes. You just absorb the qualities of everyone ar-“ he hiccups, but carries on unbothered. “Everyone around you. It’s like you stole my logic or something. Give it back.” He pouts and makes grabby hands in Scott's direction before he pounds back his shot, and flops back against the couch.

“I hate Derek. I actually hate him. Is it against the law to lower his pay because he’s a jerking jerk who jerks and leads people on and then sets them up with hissister?” He lets his head loll to the side so he can look at Scott while he waits for him to answer.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. You can still make him jealous, though. I mean, just have Danny come into the store or something. He’d play along.” Scott shrugs, already bored with the line of conversation.

Stiles grabs a pen and a pad of paper, so as not to forget this clearly genius plan in the morning. He quickly scribbles in an almost legible scrawl:

_Plans to ruin Derek’s life_

  1. _Look into legality of lower pay for douches (call Lydia)_
  2. _Get Danny to pretend to be my… something. To be discussed with Danny at a later date_
  3. _~~Find a way to make him less attractive.~~  Look into aversion therapy_
  4. _Punch him in the face_



Satisfied with his clearly fool proof plans, Stiles sets the pad of paper aside, and gets back to his drinking.

 

xx

 

Stiles wakes up Monday morning feeling as though he’d made out with a carpet the night before. His tongue is dry, his teeth feel like sandpaper, and his brain feels legitimately dehydrated to the point where he is seriously wondering if it has shrunken overnight. He opens one eye, very slowly, and realizes he is asleep on his living room floor, with Scott passed out next to him, using his own shoe as a pillow.

He moves slowly, oh-so-slowly, so as not to do any further damage to his body and throws a K-cup in before taking a very hot shower to try and wash away the ick. It almost sort-of helps.

After brushing his teeth three times, he walks back to the kitchen in a pair of sweatpants to quickly gulp down the coffee, black, to try and wake his brain up a little.

He walks back into the living room and nudges Scott gently with his foot to wake him up.

“No, Ally, I don’t have class today. Lemme sleep,” he mumbles before trying to cuddle into his shoe. When his noes wedges itself into the mouth of the shoe, he screws up his face and sits up abruptly.

“Oh, gnarly.” He looks up at Stiles, affronted. “You let me sleep on my _shoe?!_ You’re a terrible friend.”

“You let _me_ drink my weight in tequila. We’re even. Now go home before Allison kills me, please.” He hands Scott his phone, which is blinking with no doubt countless missed calls.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s a good idea.” He stands slowly, as if trying to get his land legs. Before Scott walks to the door, he puts a gentle hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Derek was so misleading, man. You’ll find a good one. I promise. He’ll be like… a dude version of Allison.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose.

“You knew what I meant. I’ll see you later. Don’t let it get you down too much, okay?”

Stiles nods, and sits down on the couch to wallow a bit more.

After he hears the door shut behind Scott, he notices his list from the night before. He snorts at most of the list, but does a double-take at the second item.

He makes himself another cup of coffee, with a little milk this time, and picks up his phone to call Danny.

It’s worth a shot.


	5. WOO.SYS would like your feedback. Please rate success on a scale from 1 to 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Derek's POV
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments & Kudos  
> I am cry

When Tuesday morning rolls around, Derek is genuinely torn: to go to work and see if Stiles is okay, or to call in sick so as not to witness the many ways in which Stiles hates his guts because his sister is an overbearing twit?

While he is paid salary so it wouldn’t actually make a difference to his wallet, he bites the bullet and decides to go anyway. Sure, he may have completely destroyed his personal relationship with Stiles, but he doesn’t need to put a strain on their professional relationship as well.

He pulls into the parking lot at a quarter to ten, just like every day, and expects to wait for Stiles to roll in two minutes before open per usual. What he doesn’t expect is to see Stiles’s Jeep already in the parking lot, with a sleek sedan parked in the spot beside him.

_Oh, my god. He’s going to fire me. I am going to sleep on Laura’s couch forever._

He steadies himself and walks into the store, expecting to walk into a shit storm.

The front of the store is quiet, so he walks to the back and, like a wuss, only sends a quick wave at Stiles who is pouring over paperwork before he heads over to his work area. He resolutely ignores the fact that Stiles looks ridiculously attractive today. Hair actually styled, snug jeans, and form fitting t-shirt with a blueprint outline of _Serenity_ on the front. Derek hates his life.

He turns on his monitor and gets to work on an OS install on a machine so old that it should probably be a paperweight at this point, and inwardly groans at how long his day is going to be. Then, he hears shuffling in the small room beside the work room where they keep the refrigerator and the coffee maker. He turns around just in time to see what appears to be a male model leave the side room carrying two mugs.

The tanned, toned, jaw-that-could-cut glass guy who has an unbelievably frustrating combination of adorable puppy and sex god, walks behind Stiles so his chest is to Stiles’s back, and places his head on Stiles’s shoulder before he hands Stiles a mug with a smile. Derek is unreasonably annoyed by the fact that one could do a freaking body shot out of the kid’s dimples. _Do they do cosmetic surgery for dimples? Those cannot be real._

“That was the last of the milk, by the way. You owe me. After all of the milk I put in yours, I got a _splash_ ,” he says quietly into Stiles’s ear. Naturally, because god hates him, Derek can still hear it from across the room.

“Hey, thanks,” Stiles smiles and takes a large gulp, before looking up at Derek like he’s only just now realizing he’s there.

“Right, sorry! Derek, this is our freelance guy I was telling you about, Danny. Danny, this is our new software guy, Derek.” He makes lazy gestures between them, not unlike when Derek met Lydia. However, the situation is decidedly more painful this time around, like Derek is an afterthought.

Danny walks up to Derek with a smile, and holds out his hand to shake. “It’s really nice to meet you, man. Welcome to the team,” Danny’s smile is warm, wide and genuine. His grip on Derek’s hand is absolutely crushing, and feels a lot like a warning.

“Yeah, thanks,” Derek says quietly, throws out a quick smile, and then goes back to work.

 

Derek tries hard to concentrate on his work. After he does a 32 bit install on what is _clearly_ a 62 bit PC, he realizes he’s pretty much failing miserably. It’s most likely because he’s using the glass of the photo frame Laura made him bring to work as a mirror so he can spy on Stiles and Danny behind him. Hey, it’s not his fault if the lighting is perfect for his spying… or that he’s leaning in just the right direction so that it will work, even if it is giving him a little bit of a kink in his neck. Apparently, he’s now also a masochist. _Awesome._

Stiles and Danny have spent the last hour being absolutely nauseating. There has been giggling, tickling, cuddling, and what Derek swears can only be described as _sweet nothings_ whispered back and forth. He can’t actually hear what they are saying, but judging by the looks they throw at each other, that’s the only explanation. He wants to put his fist through his monitor.

 _Why is this the first I am seeing of this guy? The first I’m_ hearing _of this guy since the day I was hired? What the actual fuck is going on?_

Just when he thinks he will explode because he can’t take anymore, Danny speaks up.

“All right, I’ve put it off long enough. I gotta go do that maintenance down on 7th street or they’re going to think I’m bailing on them.” Danny puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder as he speaks, squeezes it tight, like the idea of leaving is physically paining him.

 _Your_ existence _is physically paining me._

Stiles makes an absolutely adorable whiney noise, making grabby hands at Danny’s shirt. “Are you sure? I’m the boss, I can just call and tell them you were overbooked today and you won’t be able to make it until tomorrow…” Stiles trails off, shaking his eyebrows up and down at Danny.

Derek is, roughly, thirty seconds away from putting his headphones on and drowning in his misery in a Taylor Swift song. It’s that bad.

When he takes in the look on Danny’s face, he can hear the music in his mind.

 _He’s the reason for the teardrops on my guitar…_ Then he remembers he is a grown man, and should not know the lyrics to _any_ Taylor Swift song, no matter how much Laura loves her.

But no, really. There’s no excuse.

“I wish I could, babe, but I’m actually overbooked tomorrow for stuff. I’ll text you when I’m done today, we’ll meet up later. Maybe that Italian place uptown? That tiramisu we got last time has been haunting my dreams,” he says before leaning in to peck Stiles on the cheek.

“Just the tiramisu?” Stiles asks, laughter threatening to bubble up between his words.

“I’m leaving now!” Danny says, blushing as he throws on a cardigan over his thin Henley. “It was nice meeting you, Derek.” He pauses at the swinging doors that lead to the front of the store before turning back to Stiles. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone,” he says with a wink.

“Well I never!” Stiles clutches at a pair of imaginary pearls.

Derek can see Danny shaking his head as he walks to the front door.

 

It’s not even an hour after Danny leaves that a tanned, sort-of clueless looking guy with shaggy brown hair and big doe eyes waltzes into the back like he owns the place. Even though Derek has his headphones on, the music is low enough that he can hear the boy speak over the quiet strumming of Conor Oberst’s guitar. Not that he’s wallowing, of course.

“You have a customer up front who is too stupid to press the button. You might wanna take care of that,” he says to Stiles, affectionately popping him one on the shoulder. Derek prays this isn’t another boy who’s taken with Stiles. He’s had enough for one day.

“Balls,” he hears Stiles grumble a little _too_ loudly as he stomps to the front.

The second the swinging doors close, the boy with the formerly-vacant expression snaps his head up to level a glare at Derek before walking toward him with a purpose. Derek slowly pulls his headphones off, hunching back on his stool a little.

“All right look, you little shit. Stiles is the greatest person I know, and I am only going to say this once: lead him on again, and I will find a way to make your disappearance look like an accident.” He pauses, somehow finding a way to glare even _harder_ at Derek.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you are one hundred percent insane for not wanting to be with him. He is also so insanely too good for you that I can’t even wrap my brain around it, but that’s beside the point. So you fix this. You _better_ fix this, man. Either get your head out of your ass and grovel at his feet, or find a way to ease yourself seamlessly into the friendzone. I’m damn close with his dad, the _sheriff,_ and I am not above using that connection to my advantage if it came down to an assault and battery charge, capice?”

He stares at Derek, long and hard, waiting for a response. Derek is so shocked that he just blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“But he has a boyfriend?” It’s not meant to be a question, but he’s sort of in the middle of an emotional overload so his brain-to-mouth function isn’t exactly spot on.

Mystery guy slaps him on the back of the head, hard. “Motherfucking _shit_ you are so stupid. Just fix it, damnit.”

He walks away, apparently considering his job here done, and goes to sit down at Stiles’s work station. He grabs a dry erase marker and draws a giant penis on the metal table, and signs a name beneath it as if it were a work of art.

He turns around at the swinging doors, just like Danny did, to give him one more glare. “He really liked you.” He just looks sad when he turns back around to go.

After he leaves to go back to the front of the store, Derek takes a glance at the graphic artwork.

 _-Scott,_ it reads next to an exceptionally long ball hair.

Derek groans. _And now his best friend hates me. I am quitting life. I am just going to pack up my shit and move to the Netherlands… or whatever that place is that has more sheep than people. That is where I belong. With the sheep._

 

Derek is still dreaming of the land of the sheep when Stiles comes back, talking on the phone. It takes Derek about .5 seconds to realize he’s talking to Danny.

“No, we watched that last week. Get that Maggie Gyllenhaal one. You know? With the Leonard Cohen song that plays on the menu screen.” Stiles pauses, laughs awkwardly and rubs at the back of his neck, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Seriously?” He whispers.

Derek is using his super-sleuth spy mirror again, like a pro.

“We did that _one time._ And that’s not why I want to watch it. I just like the movie…” he trails off, clears his throat uncomfortably as he looks in Derek’s direction. Derek’s mind is running on overdrive, trying to figure out what the hell Stiles is talking about. It makes his brain hurt. Or maybe that’s his heart. His life is confusing right now, okay?

He snaps back into action, pulling out his lunch and taking a bite of his sandwich as he gets started on a data transfer, silently hoping this one won’t have anything… unsettling involved. (Last week, he had to transfer over 200 pictures of an amateur photo shoot some guy did of his insanely overweight wife in the desert. Derek never needed to know that the woman had a tattoo above her womanly parts. He does now, though. He shudders at the thought.)

Stiles laughs loudly into the phone, mutters out a “shut your cute face. I’ll see you at seven,” and hangs up.

Derek continues to think about the sheep.

 

xx

 

When Derek gets home that night, the first thing he sees is Laura on the large, comfortable armchair. She’s watching the reality show with the cavewoman again, eating Mac N Cheese, and doesn’t even bother to look up at the sound of the door.

Derek loses it.

“You!” He bellows as he tries to rip his coat off quickly. He fails, getting his arm stuck, and ends up using a foot to hold down the other arm of the coat to rip himself out of it. He stomps on it afterward for good measure.

Laura looks at him with what appears to be great restraint to hold back laughter, but stays silent.

“You… horrible person, you! Stiles hates me because of you! His stupid friend reamed me out today for _leading him on._ I wonder why he thought that, _Laura._ ” He pauses to glare at her, huffs out a few breaths.

“Maybe it’s because you were flirting at him so hard that he practically ran out of here? Or maybe it was because I was here, all normal person like, while you were in a _bikini?_ “

He faceplants onto the couch and groans when it appears that about 98% of his weight landed on his nose.

“It’s not my fault he responded the wrong way to my plan. He was supposed to out-gay himself the more I hit on him, not clam up and crawl away like I was going to attack him with my scary girl vagina!” Laura sounds partly annoyed, but mostly frustrated. Derek can tell it’s her version of “I’m Sorry,” but he’s not going to forgive her until she actually apologizes like a normal human being.

“He has a boyfriend now,” Derek grumbles into the couch cushion.

“Oh, hunny.” Laura goes from frustrated to concerned in two seconds flat. “I’m so sorry. I really thought it would work… Are you sure he has a boyfriend?” She kneels down on the floor next to him, rubbing circles into the small of his back.

“Positive. They made kissy faces at each other. And they go on dates. And he looks like a Hawaiian Dimple God.” He sort-of whines the last part out, burying his face into the couch cushion, wishing it was sand.

“Hawaiian Dimple God?” Laura says, intrigued. “Is that new gay lingo?”

“I hate you.”

 

 

“You have to, like, woo him,” Laura says around a mouthful of her meatball sub. Derek feels beyond pathetic about the little pang in his chest from how much the action reminds him of Stiles. Which is weird, because it’s pretty gross when either of them do it; a pretty picture half-masticated food does not make.

“Woo him?” Derek raises eyebrow. He’s starting to feel like he’s communicating with his eyebrows more than his mouth these days. Maybe that’s part of his problem.

“Yes. You know, do nice things for him. Make it so he thinks about you when you aren’t even around.”

“Did you miss the hot Hawaiian boyfriend that I mentioned? I’m not so sure he’ll even have _time_ to think about me.”

Laura gets up, grabs their dishes, and takes them into the kitchen. _She must feel sorry for me if she’s cleaning. This is bad._

“I have no idea how to do that. What the hell am I supposed to do? Write him poetry? I can see it now-

_Stiles,_

_Your eyes are beautiful_  
kind, warm and  
they tell me nothing  
because they are focused on your boyfriend  
who is infinitely more attractive than I  
in every way

_Love, Derek”_

Laura winces and gives him a smile using only half of her mouth. “Let’s make that plan B, yeah?”

 

xx

 

Derek leaves fifteen minutes early on Wednesday morning to pick up coffee for himself and Stiles. Mostly for Stiles, though.

When he pulls into the lot later than he’d like because the barista felt it necessary to chat him up while she made their coffees, he sees Stiles getting out of his Jeep… already carrying a travel mug. Presumably filled with coffee.

 _Seriously? I’ve fucked up on my_ first _attempt?_

Derek pops the top off of Stiles’s coffee, and downs it so quickly he thinks he now has second degree burns on the back of his throat. Waste not want not.

As he grabs his own cup, he gets out of the car and walks quickly to meet up with Stiles as he opens the door. Stiles looks up and gives him a weak smile.

“Thought I beat you here for the second day in a row,” he says, balancing his mug awkwardly while he fishes through his keys with his other hand. Derek reaches over to grab the mug from him.

“Can’t have that happening, now can we?”

Stiles laughs as he pulls his keys out of the now un-locked door, grabs the mug back. “No, I guess we can’t.”

 

They get down to work almost immediately, and around ten thirty Derek is physically incapable of stopping his knee from tapping. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have had two shots put in his _and_ Stiles’s coffee. Now that he’s finished both, he feels sort of like his heart is beating so fast it’s about to take flight right out of his chest.

And he has to pee. Like, really bad. For the third time since he walked in the door. He ignores his bladder, and taps his pen in an off-beat, fast rhythm on his workspace counter while he thinks of a way to start a conversation with Stiles.

He gives up and goes to the bathroom, hoping it will clear his head. After he washes his hands, he splashes some cool water on his face. He hates caffeine.

“Dude, are you okay? You look insane amounts of nervous or something. And that’s not even counting the fact that you’ve peed like fifty times today.” Stiles’s voice makes him jump, and he half-falls into Stiles’s workspace on his way back to his own.

“What? Yeah, no. I’m fine. Maybe had a little too much coffee this morning, I guess.” He shrugs, wishes the blush in his cheeks and ears would get paler instead of turning lobster red. He can physically _feel_ the heat in them. It’s more than a little embarrassing.

Stiles takes a sip from his own mug. “Amateur,” he says with a grin.

Derek huffs as he sits back down, puts on his headphones, and gives up on wooing for the time being to get some actual work done.

 

It’s about an hour later when Stiles taps on his shoulder, effectively scaring the crap out of him.

“Jesus! Did we not learn from the first time you did that?” Derek means for what he says to come off as a cool mixture of entertained and aloofly annoyed, but he just sort of sounds… well, hyperactive.

“I called your name _three times_ before I tapped you. Not my problem you listen to your weird post-grunge rock so loud. Well, not my fault you _sing along_ with your post-grunge so loudly. I especially enjoyed your keyed up version of The Flys,” Stiles looks for all the world like he is _relishing_ in Derek’s pain. _Am I trying to woo a sadist? Is that what’s going on here?_

Derek sighs and lowers the volume on his headphones that are now hanging down off of his desk. “Thanks. What’s up?”

“You are so overactive right now I can’t think. I physically can’t take it anymore. You wanna go for a run or to the gym?”

Derek stares at him, at a complete loss. _What?_

“What?”

Stiles sighs, like communicating with Derek is a punishment. “You need to let the caffeine monster run free, man.”

Stiles smiles, and Derek gets distracted by his… everything. His glasses are hanging low on his nose, and he has another ridiculous beanie on again, although this time it’s a hideous maroon instead of his usual purple. His sci-fi nerd shirt du-jour is a simple black tee that says “He was my Captain before he was your Castle.” Derek dies a little inside.

“I, um?” He wishes he remembered how to form coherent sentences. Life was simpler when he knew how to do that. Less horrifically embarrassing.

“Okay, run it is. I’m assuming with all of your,” Stiles motions at Derek’s general person, “fit- _ness_ that you probably have workout clothes in your car. Yes?”

Derek nods dumbly.

“All right then. Well, let’s get changed. I can’t watch you try to crawl out of your skin anymore. It’s rather upsetting.”

 

Derek pushes through the swinging doors, workout bag in hand, as Stiles is walking out of the bathroom. Derek wishes that Stiles wasn’t one of those doesn’t-realize-he’s-a-hipster hipsters. Because, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be wearing old-school 1970’s era Adidas shorts that fall above the knee, with a threadbare white t-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. The pulled up socks are unattractive enough that he can keep his boner down, though.

Small victories.

 

Derek changes quickly, Stiles hangs an “Out to lunch. Back when I’m back!” sign on the door, and they’re off.

Derek starts off at a leisurely pace, because even though Stiles is apparently quite toned (spoiler alert: those old-school gym shorts show off a lot of wonderful, wonderful muscled thigh), he isn’t exactly sure of how athletic Stiles is.

Stiles makes it clear pretty quickly.

“Do you always run this slow? This is boring,” Stiles whines, turning around so he’s running backward in front of Derek.

“You asked for it.” Derek can’t hold back the grin, and he might take off at a much faster pace than he normally would, but he feels like this might _impress_ Stiles or something.

Also, coffee.

 

It’s about two miles later when they reach the park, and Stiles finally breaks.

“Oh my god. Okay, okay. Uncle! For the love of…” he bends over, hands on his knees, and makes sad, short wheezing sounds. “Are you a robot? Is that it? How are you not even sweating?”

Derek tries hard to hold back his smile and fails. “I run five miles five times a week, Stiles. And I’m sweating a little…” He trails off and uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe at the sweat that’s broken out on his forehead. From behind the protective covering of his shirt, he grins to himself as he hears Stiles make a noise that can only be described as a squeak.

When he lowers his shirt again, he doesn’t miss the slightly darker blush to Stiles’s cheeks that is a result of more than just a fast-paced run.

“Do you need to rest, or do you want to start heading back? We can walk for a bit if you want.” Derek walks a bit closer to Stiles as he speaks, and tries to remind himself that the smell of someone else’s sweat isn’t actually supposed to be attractive.

“Yeah, let’s start walking back. I think I ruptured a lung, by the way.” He elbows Derek gently as he begins to walk in the direction they came. Derek doesn’t miss Stiles throw a glare at an older woman sitting on a bench.

“What was that for?” Derek asks, looking back and forth between the seemingly clueless old woman and Stiles.

“I didn’t like the way she was looking at me,” Stiles shrugs. _You know, NBD, I just glare at old ladies. It’s a thing I do. What’s that? You wanna make out? Sorry, I have a boyfriend who is cuter than you._

Derek blanches at his own thoughts. _That escalated quickly. Subject change a go-go._

“So, how come you never mentioned Danny before? It seems… How long have you two been together?” He regrets the question the second he asks it, but he is still dying for an answer.

Stiles looks confused at first, and then sort of torn. “We’re just,” he pauses to clear his throat. “It’s been off and on for years now.” Stiles finally says, all cryptic-like.

Derek nods, like that’s an answer that is of any use to him.

Stiles’s head shoots up at Derek, and he throws him a big grin. “Race you back,” he says. He doesn’t wait for Derek to respond before he’s shooting off like a bolt.

Derek can hear him yell from the distance between them. “I lied! I used to run cross country. Sucker!”

_I am in so over my head._


	6. sys.hockey: there will be blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derek buys hockey ticekts  
> it doesn't go so well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter took... forever. i think i rewrote it a total of eighteen times????  
> either way: thank you, amanda and evdil for being just super fantastic and helping with progression. also, for letting me complain at you about how much of a douche derek is to write. stiles, too, for that matter.
> 
> i apologize for any errors, i am posting this after being away for something crazily close to 19 hours, and i also do not have a beta soo yep.

Wednesday night, Derek decides maybe coffee isn’t the right angle. He’s on his laptop, headphones on to ignore Laura’s abysmal taste in television shows, running through every conversation he can remember having with Stiles.

_What does he like? What is he interested in? Do we have any actual inside jokes?_

He goes onto Facebook, which he rarely does but he’s bored, okay? And he sees a post from an (at best) acquaintance from U Penn.

_“Just drank $45 worth of beer (that means roughly three) and watched Eager beat the ever loving shit out of Crosby. Oh, life is good.”_

He can feel the metaphorical light bulb click on above his head. He can _feel_ it, all right? Stiles was so excited by the fact that Derek had been in Philadelphia, had _lived_ in Philadelphia.

He needs to take Stiles to a Flyers game. It’s imperative. They’ll talk about cheesesteaks, and Stiles will attempt (and crushingly fail at) speaking in a Philly accent, and it will be amazing.

It’s less than twenty minutes, and about a hundred bucks, later that he is the proud owner of two tickets to the Flyers Vs. the Ducks for next week. He takes the fact that the game is so soon as a good sign. What else could it mean? The hockey gods are looking down on him, and maybe pitying him a little. He won’t look a gift horse, though.

He prints out the tickets and folds them neatly before placing them in his wallet, grinning wildly while he imagines Stiles’s excitement. This is going to be perfect.

 

xx

 

It is not perfect.

 

Thursday morning is quiet, even for their small store. Derek isn’t sure when he started thinking of it as _their_ store, but he isn’t going to question it. It’s a nice thought, after all.

He tries to bring up the game a few times, but chickens out every time. It just never feels right.

It’s about one thirty when he finally walks up to Stiles, moving his hand to the back pocket of his jeans to grab for his wallet and show Stiles his gift. He makes it to Stiles’s station just as Stiles’s phone rings. And, naturally, his ring tone is (Ten’s) theme song from Doctor Who. Derek would expect nothing less.

Stiles quickly pulls his phone out, frowns at the screen, and ignores the call before placing the phone back in his pocket. Derek ignores it, too, because it’s totally none of his business, and moves on to what he’s been working himself up to doing all day.

“Hey, Stiles?” He tries to look confident, like he asks people on dates all the time. (Big surprise here – he doesn’t.)

“Yeah?” Stiles doesn’t look up from his work, but he does sort-of tilt his head in Derek’s direction to indicate that he’s listening. It’s good enough.

“So last night I was online, and I just… Well, there is this game next week, the Flyers against the Ducks? And you just seemed so interested in Philadelphia that I got tickets, you know, in case you wanted to experience the Broad Street Bullies up close and personal. I mean, you don’t hav-“ Stiles cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Oh my god! Real Flyers tickets?!” Stiles grabs them out of Derek’s hand before he even knows what’s going on. “I’ve never even _been_ to a hockey game, but the Flyers! They’re like… hockey legends! I mean, come on, _Bobby Clarke!_ ” Stiles looks at the tickets in his hands like they are going to tell him the secrets of the world.

Derek wishes he’d printed them on nicer paper than the crap that was just sitting in the paper tray of Laura’s old HP. Although, printing hockey tickets on resume paper might have come off as a little strange. At least this way it makes it look like he wasn’t trying too hard, which he totally was. Derek will take his victories where he can. _I’m looking at paper type as a victory. Dear god, I should_ so _seek therapy._

“Did you just rattle off everything you knew about hockey?” Derek asks, trying to hide his smile. Stiles smiles back but doesn’t respond.

The grin on Stiles’s face doesn’t fade as he grabs his wallet from his back pocket. Actually, it appears to grow wider – more teeth, to the point where Derek can almost see gums, and Stiles’s tongue trapped in between his top and bottom teeth, like he has to hold it still. Derek is finding it very difficult to keep his mind out of the gutter. He assumes it is paying rent to stay there, at this point.

Stiles licks his lips, then, and then reads the tickets carefully. “Wow, right at the ice. Awesome! I hope we see blood. So, forty-seven a piece? I’ll just give you a hundred. Man, Scott is going to be so excited.”

And Derek’s stomach drops through the floor.

Stiles clumsily hands him a few twenties, tens and fives, which Derek doesn’t bother counting, before pulling out his cell phone. He smiles at Derek one more time before he hits call, and Derek is close enough to hear the ringing from the other end, and then the obvious voice of Scott answering.

 _“Stiles! Were your palms itching? Allison and I were just talking about how you –“_ Stiles cuts him off with a groan.

“Dude, no. Your palms itch when you’re going to get money, your _ears ring_ when people are talking about you. How have you made it this far in life?” He shoots Derek a conspiratorial grin. Derek can barely muster a grimace, too wrapped up in his self-pity to manage much else.

_“Shut up, man, you knew what I meant.”_

“Fine, whatever. Clear your schedule for next Thursday night, my friend. You and I have a date with some toothless dudes, overpriced hot dogs, and hopefully gratuitous amounts of blood.” The smile on Stiles’s face at the idea of this is contagious, and Derek actually smiles along this time. Sure, the idea for the date might have completely blown up in his face, but at least he made Stiles _that_ happy. It’s a step in the right direction. Probably.

 _“I… what? I don’t think I want to bleed, especially with guys who don’t know how to practice proper oral hygiene. Can’t you take your dad to… whatever the hell you got yourself into?”_ Scott sounds genuinely concerned for whatever Stiles might have been talking about, but much more interested in staying the hell away from it.

“A hockey game. Jesus, Scott. A _hockey game._ We’ll eat too much, and drink a lot of beer, and watch guys beat the shit out of each other in subzero temperatures. It’ll be awesome! Do you think Allison will pick us up afterward? I plan on getting very drunk.” Stiles has started pacing by this point, which leads Derek to believe he should back away before he does what he wants to do – which is follow Stiles around as he moves, listening in and hoping to glean any information he can about the inner workings of Stiles’s confusing mind.

Derek sits down and tries to get back to work. After three failed attempts at getting a PC to make it past POST, he gives up and texts Laura.

_Plan backfired. He’s taking Scott. –D_

He gets a response before he can even set his phone back down on his desk.

_I was going to say he probably just doesn’t want the D… but this seems like the wrong time for my superior sense of humor. –L_

Derek wonders if he should look into finding a replacement-sister, or keep her around so she can teach him how to text that quickly.

 

 

 

**Stiles**

 

Allison driving them to the rink is surprisingly less embarrassing than Stiles had anticipated. He was expecting it to be similar to being in the car with the younger (female) version of his father. You know, the normal questions – So I hear you like a boy; who is he? Where did you meet him? What do you know about him? Etc.  

Stiles is pleasantly surprised when the entire ride is comprised of Scott and Allison bickering about where she is going to spend the game (at the bar across the street with Lydia and her boyfriend, Jackson), and if the Ducks are anything like the movie The Mighty Ducks. For the record, Allison insists there are no similarities, which leads to Scott acquiring a new goal in life to figure out which player doesn’t know how to stop while on his skates.

In general, Stiles is insanely thankful to have wonderful friends.

 

After an awkward twenty minutes of trying to find their seats with their hands full of beer and soft pretzels, Stiles as Scott plunk down into two seats right up against the glass. Stiles is happy that it’s much warmer than he’d expected, and that he can take off his scarf and hat. He ignores the looks of the fans around him, all of which are bitch faces that imply their thoughts of him being an “amateur.” Instead, he decides to share everything he has learned about hockey and the Flyers in the past week with Scott.

“Dude, did you know that there was a player from Philly who _dive-tackled someone?_ Like, he actually flew off the ice and knocked a guy down. He was suspended for like a million games and the fans started making these t-shirts that said ‘Free Downie’ and I mean it totally didn’t work but still. How badass is that?” Stiles can tell he’s a little two wired, knee bouncing up and down repeatedly while he talks a mile a minute. Scott doesn’t appear to be paying any attention, his nose almost pressed against the screen of his phone while he texts (presumably Allison).

“I’m pretty sure that if you haven’t even been to Philadelphia you aren’t supposed to call it ‘Philly,’” Scott says, dopey-wide eyes fixed on his phone.

Stiles can’t find it in him to care once the lights dim a little, and the teams start to skate out onto the ice.

 

Stiles isn’t quite sure how it happened, but soon there are only two minutes left in the last period of the game, and with an exception of a quick trip to the merch stand, he hasn’t moved more than three feet from his seat since he first sat down. Sure, he’s flagged down several beer peddlers and maybe the hot dog guy a few times, but his eyes have been pretty much glued to the orange uniforms flying past.

“Come on, this is a hockey game, not a tea party! Fight him or back off, watching you two hug for twenty minutes is bullshit!”

Stiles is simultaneously shocked and thrilled at Scott’s sudden turn toward the bloodthirsty, but is so into the moment that he just sort of makes a woop-ing sound to accompany Scott’s loud and slightly off-kilter play-by-play.

He knows by the way he sways a little on his feet and by the way he has issues tracking the puck that he’s probably drunk, but it’s okay. He’s with his best friend, and he’s watching a sport that Derek loves, and all of his time spent on Wikipedia wasn’t for naught because he actually understands what is going on, and those beers cost _seven dollars each_ , goddamnit.

When Briere gets his hat trick, just a few seconds before the last period ends, securing the Flyer’s victory, Stiles knows that not only was his impromptu merchandise purchase a success, but that he officially loves hockey. No, but really. He does.

 

Stiles and Scott slowly make their way out of the stadium, gulping what is left of their beers just as they leave because they are not to waste a whole two dollars’ worth of beer. Scott clumsily texts Allison, making cooing noises at his phone and smiling his Allison Smile, so Stiles pulls out his phone, knowing it will be a while.

There is literally only one person he can think of to text at that moment, and he is just drunk enough to do it.

_Is there a name for a flyers fan? Whatever that word is – I am one. I am a flyers fan and it is me. –S_

Stiles looks around, notices everyone gravitating toward cars and regrets for a quick moment that he isn’t a smoker because at least then he could do something with his hands so he didn’t look quite so awkward waiting for his ride like a fifteen year old while his best friend texts his girl.

His phone whistles, and he nearly drops it in his attempts to pull it out of his pocket to see the response.

_I think they are just “Flyer’s Fans”? I’m glad you had fun. I watched the game on TV. Saw you and Scott a few times when the camera panned. …how much did you two drink? –D_

He lets out a snort, and quickly texts back.

_Enough to make bad decisions, probably. –S_

The moment he hits send is the moment he realizes the message said entirely too much.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Scott has put his phone away, and is looking at Stiles’s phone like it’s a bomb waiting to go off. “Please tell me you are not texting Derek right now.”

“Who else would I be texting? He got us the tickets in the first place. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“You need to give this little thing you have for Derek up, man. It’s gone on too long. Not only is he your employee, not only is he _super fucking weird_ , and possibly a serial killer because seriously who keeps the same expression on their face all the _freaking time,_ but he tried to set you up with his sister. Oh, right” Scott pauses and makes a large gesture with his arms, “and he’s a giant butthole.”

It takes Stiles a long moment to realize the emotion that is coursing rapidly though his veins, but when he finally has a name for it, it’s like it _consumes_ him: rage. He is absolutely filled with rage.

“Are you kidding me right now? I never say shit about your romantic life. How many times has Allison broken up with you just because her dad didn’t like you? Do I ever complain that if we aren’t hanging out with her you are texting her so it’s still like she is there anyway? No. Do you know why? Because I am an awesome, supportive friend. You, however, are being the complete opposite right now. Shouldn’t you be asking me _how_ I am feeling about this instead of telling me _what_ I should be feeling about this? Jesus, you are shit at this.”

He can feel his hands trembling a little, his cheeks turning red, but it’s like he can’t turn it off. He loves Scott, probably more than anyone in the world other than his dad, and he still wants to punch him hard in the balls for being such a royal ass.

“I’m trying to protect your ass, not coddle it. This dude is bad news, man. He doesn’t like you. Yes, that makes him crazy, but he doesn’t. You can’t keep holding a light for this dude, it’s not going to go anywhere, it’s just going to drive you nuts.” Scott’s pacing now, looking about the same as Stiles; confused by the fact that they are apparently in an argument, with added disappointment in Stiles’s apparent stupidity.

“Oh, my god. No. It’s hold a _flame,_ not hold a light. But it doesn’t matter, because I really think he does like me, he just doesn’t know how to show it. He’s had a super fucked up life, okay? He is amazing, and I can’t just turn off liking him. What would you have done if after you met Allison I told you to just hang it up becauseI thought it wouldn’t work?”

The look Scott turns on him is nothing short of murderous, and Stiles takes a step back, for the first time in his life afraid of what Scott might do. (With an exception of when Scott made a model rocket, but that is beside the point.)

“I would have done it anyway, because Allison and I love each other. We are meant to be. Derek is a butthole who doesn’t see you the way you want him to. I feel the need to stress this again: he set you up with his sister. His female sister. As in, even if he does like guys, you aren’t one of them. I know that sounds harsh, but you gotta get that through your head. Derek doesn’t like you, and what you are doing is unhealthy.”

Stiles is pacing like Scott now, unsure of how to best control his emotions.

“He does like me, though. What the fuck do you think tonight was?”

“If he liked you, this would have been a date between you and him! It doesn’t matter, though, because that guy is a douche. Like, a grade a Douche with a capital D. Derek is a Douche.”

And then Stiles loses it. He’s not exactly sure who throws the first punch, but suddenly, he and Scott are fighting. Actually fighting, with fists and elbows and unattractive grunting.

Stiles throws a hard right hook, hoping to make his point and call it a day, but Scott is prepared with a fist of his own.

It doesn’t take long, a minute tops, but soon they’ve both thrown a handful of punches and are both bleeding; Stiles from the lip, Scott from the nose. Stiles can feel a black eye forming on his left side, and wants to punch Scott again just for how long it’ll take for that to go away.

Stiles is winding back for another hit, acidic words waiting on the tip of his tongue, when a security guard approaches them.

“Guys, look, I get it,” he says, opening his hands wide to indicate both of them. “Fans of different teams don’t always get along, but you can’t fight in the parking lot. That’s how you get kicked out of the arena. For life.” He looks serious. Stiles gives zero fucks.

“I don’t care if I’m kicked out, this fucking asshole, who is supposed to be my _best friend,_ thinks the guy I’m probably in love with is a douche. I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” Stiles holds up his hands in an innocent manner, before sucker punching Scott in the nose once more for good measure. He might utter something that closely resembles “fucking asshole” as Scott grabs at his injured, bloody nose, but no one needs to know about that.

“When your buddy falls in love, shit gets weird. He’s not all about you anymore, he’s about someone else infinitely more than he ever was about you, it sucks” the security guard pauses, and Stiles takes in the strange man for the first time. He’s not very tall, but his muscular build is still deceiving. He’s thick from head to toe, with bright red hair and an even brighter red beard that could seriously rival Paul Bunyan.

“You need to get over it and move on. You can have a best friend who is in love with someone. It’s normal, and takes minimal adjusting when you get over yourself. So dust yourselves off, clean yourselves up before your wome- … your partners see you, and call it a day. Don’t let a hockey game be the end of your days.” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to swear to anyone who asks that neither of you had ID, so you won’t be banned from the stadium. So just go.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he turns on his heal and leaves, like the conversation was totally normal. Like security guards are _supposed_ to be relationship Yodas.

Stiles sighs, and when he finally looks up at Scott, Scott is laughing. Scott is laughing hysterically, like the time Stiles showed him that David After Dentist video. Scott is doing that strange laugh that makes no sound, but is still so violently possessing your body that it is impossible to remain upright. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s laughing about, but he can’t hold himself back from joining.

“Dude,” Scott makes out between huffs, “Who was that guy? Why did he make so much sense? Oh my god, I am so sorry I made you bleed. I just… Derek so doesn’t deserve you, you know?”

“It’s cool, bro. I know your heart’s in the right place. You just gotta...” Stiles puts his arm around Scott’s shoulder, leading him toward what are clearly Allison’s car’s headlights. “You just gotta trust me. And you have to understand that Derek is actually awesome, and not even a little bit of a douche. I promise.”

 

**Derek**

Stiles doesn’t pull into the parking lot until about thirty minutes after they are supposed to open, but judging by Stiles’s condition the night before, Derek is still sort of impressed. He tried, at least.

When Stiles approaches, he speaks in a hushed voice, dark bags under his eyes and hair askew from under his hat. Upon closer inspection, almost half of his face is a dark purplish color, and his lip is split open with an ugly scab acting as it’s only stitching.

“We are whispering today. If we need to get one another’s attention, we will shoulder tap. There will be no yelling ever again. Also, if you say one word about the condition of my face, I will end you. It will be painful, and bloody, and you are not eligible for a severance. So just… no.”

Derek has nothing to say to that, so he just nods, and follows Stiles’s lead.

Stiles only turns on half of the lights in the store, and pulls a handmade sign out from his bag that he sloppily tapes to the door before re-locking it.

 _The Doctor and his companion are on a trip through time and space for the foreseeable future (read: until Tuesday)._  
Please forward any questions to the comments section of our website - don’t worry, the TARDIS has good wifi.  
Thank you!

Derek isn’t even going to touch that one, so he turns around and goes to his work station. Before he gets comfortable, he waits until Stiles is getting settled in himself, and walks over quietly.

Derek cautiously puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, and the look Stiles gives him throws him a little. He looks so sad and so tired and so _bruised,_ and Derek’s starting to reconsider the gift he’s gotten him. Maybe it isn’t the right time. But then Stiles starts speaking, quietly, and Derek sort of forgets about silly things like socially appropriate comments and gestures.

“Hey, what’s up?” Stiles doesn’t try to lean away from his hand, so Derek leaves it there while he hands Stiles the small item in his hand.

“I got you something.” He’s been telling himself since yesterday that it doesn’t count as a present if it isn’t wrapped, which makes it a simple friendly gesture.

Stiles takes it, confused, and looks back and forth between the item and Derek for a minute before speaking.

“What?” Stiles looks confused, before several emotions quickly cross his face. “Is this a hint that I have bad breath? Or… I don’t know how to take this.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just, you threw yours out, remember? And I saw this and you are the only person in the world I know who would actually like it. Or, at least I thought you would. Maybe not. I’m sorry, I think this might be stupid.” Derek can feel the blood rushing to his face, and has the strange urge to slowly walk backward until he is at his work station so he can forget the entire encounter ever happened.

“That was like three weeks ago. Did you think I just haven’t been brushing my teeth? I’d be offended, but I still taste like seven dollar bud light, so whatever. Thanks, man.”

Derek doesn’t start to feel comfortable again until, about twenty minutes later, he sees Stiles smile to himself as he reaches over to touch the box the toothbrush came in.

Coincidentally, that’s also the moment Derek decides that it’s time for him to step up his game. Well, or at least _get_ game. Either way, he’s got a lot of work to do.


	7. Are you sure want to permanently delete "your sex life"?

­It’s the Tuesday after the hockey game, and Derek is about fifty-four percent sure that his plans are going to work.

It’s in his favor that they live in California, that it’s a very warm day, and that he doesn’t have a dress code to adhere to, so he can wear whatever he pleases. Today, what pleases him is what he hopes will please Stiles: a black a-shirt and tight dark jeans. He feels a little stupid, used to wearing short or long sleeves, keeping his body under wraps; not just because of the scars from the surgeries after the accident, but also because it just seems unnecessary to dress otherwise.

He works out to stay fit, to know that he can handle whatever comes his way no matter what, because he is physically capable. Sure, that might be from watching too many episodes of Supernatural and an affinity for zombie movies, but he tries not to think on that too often.

What does cause him to think twice is that he now has the physical proof of his hours upon hours of hard work, his daily routines, all of the activities he does in private (save a few, _ahem_ ) on display because his shirt probably contains enough material to clothe a girl with daddy issues.

As he’s turning off his car, Derek takes one last, longing look at the t-shirt on the passenger seat. It’s pink and emblazoned with “The Fate Of The World Lies In Your Hands… And Your Pants;” the only embarrassing shirt that Laura owned that had any chance of fitting him was a flamboyantly loud one about population control. It’s his failsafe, to ensure he doesn’t chicken out over the fact that he’s less than sixty percent sure of his plan’s viability.

He huffs to himself, squares his shoulders, and gets out of his car like it’s any other day. You know, like it _isn’t_ a day where he is wearing a very tight beater that leaves nothing to the imagination and _oh god, he’s never been so embarrassed of his clothing ever._ Each step he takes makes him feel like he’s telling people “look at me, look how much I work out so people will like me” when in reality it’s more like “please stop looking at me, these muscles are solely for the purpose of the apocalypse, should it happen in the near future. I am legitimately embarrassed by the amount of time I have put into them.”

Stiles rounds the building just as Derek reaches the door, because he still insists on parking in the back lot, even though they never have enough customers to fill the front one that Derek uses. Regardless, Stiles makes it about three steps around the corner before he, in what seems like the span of one and a half seconds, sees Derek and trips over nothing to nearly face-plant on the concrete, his palms being his only savior from severe facial damage.

Derek rushes over to help Stiles up, and is quickly pushed away.

“Jesus H. I don’t need help from the person who got me here. I’m fine. I’m good! You can back away now. No one else needs to be in that close a proximity to that shirt, okay?” Stiles says the words quickly, to the point where they almost overlap each other, and it takes Derek a moment to comprehend.

It could either mean that Derek’s ensemble is abhorrent, or more effective than he thought. He’s going to go with the second, because if that isn’t true, then he should have never tried in the first place and his only saving grace is a suggestive women’s top.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. Are you okay?” Derek, for the first time in his life, feels like maybe he (knowingly) has an actual upper hand here. A part of him thinks he should feel guilty for using his body to sway someone into liking him, but the other part cares so little about it that it quite literally negates the first part all together. His mind is confusing, okay?

“I’m fine. Let’s just go inside. I think it’ll be better in air conditioning,” Stiles says, making an almost terrifyingly intense eye-contact with Derek.

Perhaps his plan is working after all.

 

The moment they get inside, Stiles turns the air conditioning down to sixty degrees, and Derek has nothing that will help with the cold.

“Stiles, it’s very cold in here… do you thing we could maybe bump it up to seventy?”

“No, I’m hot today. Sorry.” Stiles’s shrug seems… less than apologetic. Derek still doesn’t miss the very direct look down at his chest, and tries to hold onto some sort of dignity as he turns back to his monitor, hiding his traitorously hard nipples. _Air conditioning._ He had not considered air conditioning.

By lunch time, Derek is so excited to get outside, into a comfortable temperature, a temperature that doesn’t threaten to freezer-burn off his nipples, that he almost exits the front door at a run. And he immediately texts Laura.

_This is exhausting. I am literally the worst gay man ever. Aside from the fact that I don’t even know if he likes me, even a little, I am tired. I am so tired, Laura. I just wish there was a non-pathetic way to say “I like you. Please like me back.” But there isn’t. Please pick up some (a case of?) beer on your way home. Brownie points if it’s an IPA._

Derek hits send before thinking about it, and gets nauseous almost instantly – because he did not send that to Laura. He sent that to –

_Dude. We are going to the bar tonight, and you are telling me your woes. I am serious about this. –Stiles_

His phone pings again almost instantly.

_Can you pick me up a gyro at that Greek place? I’m craving lamb today, for no other reason than I am a horrible, carnivorous person. -Stiles_

Nothing in the world could make Derek feel worse than he does right now. He calls Laura and all she does is laugh – maniacally – which helps about… oh. Right. _Not at all._ It does not help at all.

 

This is what leads to Derek following behind Stiles’s Jeep, heading toward a shitty bar downtown that most likely serves nine dollar beers. He has, pretty much, zero confidence in the way this evening will go.

Mainly because Stiles has no idea that _that_ text was about him.

He’s beginning to wonder if he can orchestrate a quick death in order to avoid this horrific experience.

Sadly, his mind is a complete blank.

 

Inside the bar, Stiles picks one of those tiny, high tables that seats two. Awesome.

“Lay your problems on me, dude,” Stiles says once their beers show up; an Amstel for Stiles, a Fat Tire for Derek.

“I don’t… This is not a conversation I want to have with you, to be honest.” Derek says.

“Is that because I am your boss, because we aren’t very close, or because I’m gay?” Stiles asks, and Derek almost chokes on his tongue. 

“I don’t even know how to answer that,” Derek says truthfully.

“Okay, fair enough.” Stiles sips at his beer for a few moments, taking in the strange atmosphere around them; it has the feel (and unfortunate level of cleanliness) of a dive bar, but it is completely packed. Judging by the abhorrent number of people in thick, 70’s era eyeglasses and hideously patterned scarves, Derek is assuming this is a big hipster hang-out. He wonders, idly, when they go from liking things ironically to actually enjoying them, or if they ever realize the transition at all, and the actual irony in that situation as a whole.

“So, who’s the guy?” Stiles asks, pointedly not looking at Derek, presumably to try and make it easier for him to answer. It’s not working.

“I don’t really want to answer that one.”

“Okay, looks like we’re down to ‘yes and no,’” Stiles says with a put-upon sigh.

Derek stares at him blankly. It’s very confusing to be enamored so much by someone who, for all intents and purposes, acts socially like they are fifteen.

“Do I know him?” Stiles asks, making eye contact again.

“This is a terrible game,” Derek says into his beer. He wonders if there is a way to drown in said beer as an escape from this horrific conversation.

“Fine, we’ll make a game out of it. If the answer is yes, you drink. If the answer is no, I drink.” Stiles doesn’t wait for an answer before signaling the bartender for two more beers. Derek doesn’t bother holding back his wince.

“Do I know him?”

Derek drinks.

“Well, I guess that’s answer enough.”

 

They are both on their sixth beers, and have several shots under their belts, and the questions are getting decidedly more entertaining.

“Does he collect anything strange? Like Betty Boop dolls – which I’ve experienced, by the way. If you encounter that, run. Run so fast and so far. You don’t even know what you’re in for.” Stiles looks almost as if he is suffering from a flashback, and Derek snorts.

“I certainly hope not,” he says, with an almost certainty that Stiles only collects (slightly dorky) sci-fi and computer game memorabilia.

Derek is just now noticing that he and Stiles are leaning across the small table in order to be closer as they speak. Derek is trying to chalk it up to the fact that the bar has gotten even busier, the music even louder, the background chatter even more ridiculous. He resolutely does not move further back into his seat.

“Back to serious questions, though,” Stiles says, swilling around the beer in his glass, looking pensive to say the least. “Does he know you’re gay.”

“Well, now he does.” Derek is just drunk enough to have let that slip, and just sober enough to realize how revealing the answer was. He speaks up again before Stiles can make any guesses.

“So, I think I should probably call Laura to come get us, since neither of us are in any condition to drive,” he says, his ears only a little pink.

“Yeah, that’s probably best.” Stiles is giving Derek a calculating look, but Derek has had a few too many drinks to be able to decipher what it means.

 

Twenty minutes later when Laura picks them up, she makes them both sit in the back of her car. “You call me for a ride when you go drinking without me, you get treated like you’re in the drunk tank,” was her only explanation.

“Also, I am not a taxi or a drunk bus. This car makes one stop: home. Stiles, you’re sleeping on the couch.” And then she proceeds to chatter on aimlessly the entire ride about a new episode of one of her shows about rich housewives, and Stiles and Derek exchange pointed looks, mostly in relation to the sad state of her sanity.

 

Thankfully, her apartment is only a few minutes away, and she leaves Stiles and Derek to their own devices in the TV room before immediately heading off to bed. Derek studiously ignores the wink she throws his way.

Derek gives Stiles the remote, and Stiles immediately puts on a music channel before turning to Derek.

“Game’s not over. I still don’t know what’s going on with you,” Stiles says, looking both sad and predatory, if that is at all possible. “Is he older than you?”

“No.”

Stiles kicks his shoes off, throws his legs up on the couch and sits down with his ass on his ankles, left arm thrown over the back of the couch, knees pointed at Derek. He looks perfectly at home and comfortable and it makes Derek more nervous.

“Have you known him long?”

Derek considers for a moment. “No, not really.”

“Is he a good dresser? That’s important.”

Derek tries to sneakily look at Stiles’s purple and blue plaid shirt, unbuttoned over a t-shirt that says “You never forget your first Doctor,” and then calls to memory the quick glance he got at Stiles’s miss-matched socks before he sat on his feet. “Abysmal most of the time, actually,” he says with a small smile.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Stiles says quietly. Derek only now notices how close Stiles has gotten, close enough that he can feel the small puffs of Stiles’s breath against the side of his face. He turns a little, facing Stiles more, but does nothing about their closeness. He likes it, even if it does make his heart beat in double time.

“Does he have as good of taste in TV shows as I do? That’s even more important.” Derek knows the content of that question was innocuous, but the tone of voice, the inflection on the words, the quiet way Stiles asked the question, makes it sound incredibly sexual.

“That doesn’t really have a yes or no answer,” he says.

Their foreheads are almost touching now, and Derek is finding it increasingly more difficult not to watch the way Stiles habitually licks his lips, almost after every breath.

“Why?” Stiles is whispering now.

“Because it’s the same taste.”

“The same?”

“To a T,” Derek’s voice cracks. He’s wondering if one could possibly die from being so nervous. All of Stiles’s signs indicate that he’s hoping it’s him, but Derek is so painfully, so insanely, unaccustomed to these situations that he’s convinced he has read every sign the wrong way. That is until-

“I was really hoping you were going to say that.”

And then Stiles is kissing him. It’s messy, and tastes of light beer, which Derek will tell anyone is the second worst taste in the world next to green NyQuil (because seriously how did they even manage to make something that’s flavor can only be described as a freaking color?) Their noses are pressing uncomfortably together, and when Derek’s embarrassingly clammy hand grips the back of Stiles’s neck, Stiles actually winces a little.

Soon, though, they find their footing. Stiles is biting, Derek would go so far as to say voraciously, at Derek’s lips, and Derek is letting out little noises that sound borderline-distressed with each breath and he’s only partially aware of how embarrassing that is.

Derek pounces, what feels like years of pent up Stiles-centered sexual frustration unleashed. He wants more of Stiles’s tongue on his own, licking almost-sloppily inside of his mouth, larger than his and trying to learn the ways of the inside of a place it clearly enjoys inhabiting. He wants more of Stiles’s strange smell all over him, different but wonderful; almost like a perfect, albeit strange, combination of clean laundry and Red Bull.

Derek really only has a second to think about how absolutely pathetic that thought was before Stiles goes in for the kill. Which, in this case, was pulling Derek’s shirt off of in a quick, efficient movement, followed by his own.

Derek has a hand, more sloppily due to how drunk (on both alcohol and Stiles) he is than he would prefer, stroking down Stiles’s side, feeling the unmistakable bumps of his ribs, the surprising protrusions of his muscles thereafter. He’s starting to find it difficult to breathe.

Stiles is breathing heavier, bending down to kiss Derek’s chest and his stomach and Derek doesn’t know how to respond. So he panics, and somehow Stiles’s body is hanging off of the couch, backward; ass on the very edge of the cushion, head on the floor, face staring at the ceiling in confusion.

Choosing to see the convenience of the position, Derek hastily undoes Stiles’s zipper, tugging on the waist of Stiles’s jeans, trying to get a hand inside and bring out Stiles’s cock. Derek’s fumbling awkwardly (at best), not quite able to reach a hand inside because of the strange angle. With his usual grace (read: none), Stiles makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine before tugging down his pants and attempting to wiggle out of them more.

Derek’s practically pushing Stiles’s hands out of the way to get his mouth around him, forgetting about silly things like pride and patience. Totally overrated, when you think about it.

“Oh. My. God,” a voice that most _definitely_ isn’t Stiles’s shrieks out.

Suddenly, many things happen at once. Loudly.

Stiles, either from panic or in reaction to Derek’s sudden attempts at nose-diving directly onto Stiles’s cock, bucks his hips violently, slamming into the back of Derek’s throat before promptly falling off the couch.

Stiles tries to stand, but his pants are around his knees so he keeps falling, as he curses a blue streak.

“Jesus fuck. Oh, my god. How is this my life right now? Fuck. This is a thing that’s happening. Shit. Shit shit shit. I don’t even… whatever. Fuck. But, really, how is this happening?” Stiles is almost yelling at the beginning of his rant, trailing off to a quiet mumble as he tries to pull up his pants with dignity, which is basically impossible since his only option is to give Laura a full view of his ass in the process.

“I was just…” Laura has her hands over her eyes, and is actually blushing a little, which for the first time in his life gives Derek an inclination that she might actually be human. “I couldn’t sleep so I was going to see if you guys maybe wanted a beer or something, but then _penis_ , and I just. I am so sorry!”

Derek doesn’t really take the apology as sincere, mainly because he can see her peeking through her fingers every few seconds. He’s also failing at _not_ coughing up a lung, because an unexpected dick to the back of the throat at that angle hurts, okay?

“Laura, just give us a minute, okay?” He says as calmly as he can between coughs, which just sort of makes him sound like a crotchety old man with a smokers hack but it’s the best he can manage right now.

“Yeah, no. I totally get it. Pow wow time or whatever, it’s cool.”

She has the balls to give him a fucking wink before she leaves, and if he isn’t mistaken there’s a look of pride in her eyes, which makes him feel a little nauseated. Not the best when he’s already coughing in an attempt to spit up a dick that hasn’t been in his mouth for quite some time now.

“Stiles, I’m sorry. Shit. This is so not what… I’m sorry.” He gets up and starts pacing, grabs his shirt and throws it on, too distracted to fix it when he realizes it’s inside out. “I just… oh my god. And _Danny._ I am such a horrible person.”

Derek stops pacing and sits back down to rest his elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His plans all seemed like fun and games, all of that _all’s fair in love and war_ shit, but this isn’t a game. It’s Stiles’s life and he is just crapping all over it with his bad decisions and his bitter beer and his sister who he’s really beginning to internally refer to as Lilith because, honestly, who else is that evil?

“I think I should go. I’m gonna call a cab. We can talk about this when we aren’t drunk and when I’m not still burning red from your sister seeing you give me a Spiderman blowjob.” Stiles says quickly, sternly, and then hauls ass out of the apartment, shoes in hand.

Derek flops back on the couch and runs a hand over his face roughly.

Laura walks in, mid-mope, and hands Derek a beer.

“Look, I honestly didn’t know what you guys were doing. I mean, I didn’t think you even had the guts to go that far ever, let alone after one drunken night, when I was supposed to be asleep _fifty feet away._ ”

Derek levels her with a glare.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. And I think that you should probably bring him a coffee at work tomorrow, and grovel, and tell him how when you think about him your life is all rainbows and glitter and shit. He needs to know that you’re ridiculous over him, so that tonight isn’t an awkward memory that wheedles away at you guys until he eventually fires you for some non-reason in a few months and you never talk to him again. You have to tell him the truth. Like, yesterday.”

Derek nods slowly, knowing she’s right, and knowing this is going to be really, really hard.

"Also, have you seen my population control shirt? Allison is going to some silent protest thing and wanted to borrow it, and I could have sworn that I saw it yester-"

" _Laura,_ " he grits out between his teeth. She backs out of the room slowly, taking the hint.

 

_What if he decides he just wants to stay with Danny? What if he thinks Laura will be in our shit all of the time and it isn’t worth it? What if he thinks I am the worst kisser ever? What if he was just bored and drunk?_

_What if he was just fucking with me?_

Derek decides to sleep on it, after that. Nothing good can come from _that_ line of thinking.

He ignores the biggest boner he’s ever had, ever, just from remembering what Stiles looked like, _sounded_ like, with his little half-pant-half-moans, and curls up on the couch to go to sleep.

Sometimes, his life seems too much like a comedy of errors for his liking.

 _I thought of 3,000 ways I could fuck this up,_ he thinks as he drifts off. _I did not expect option 3,001._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry updates have been so few and far between. I wish I had cool reasons like "I have a life" or "I found a baby havalena in my apartment complex and have been raising it without my boyfriend knowing" but all I've got is "I work a lot." Sorry.
> 
> Still, you're all so fantastic, and every time there's a new comment or kudos I squee, loudly and unattractively.
> 
> We're looking at 2 to 3 more chapters left for this bad boy. Let's hope these two crazy kids can get their heads out of their asses long enough to work this out, yeah?


End file.
